


Are We There Yet?

by lordgrump



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:57:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2032731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordgrump/pseuds/lordgrump
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Backpackers AU! Michael Jones is a college student off on his gap year. In the middle of touring the forests of Vietnam, he meets a ridiculous man by the name of Gavin Free. Soon after, he meets him again on a beach in Cambodia. And again in the mountains of Hong Kong. </p><p>“Admit it. You’ll miss me. You’ll be stuck in the back of Engineering 101 daydreaming about my knob scars and skinny jeans.”</p><p>“Over my dead body.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vietnam

 You’re a big boy.

That’s what you told yourself when you kissed your mom on the cheek the day you left for Asia. Fresh faced, beaming, and backpack snug on your shoulders.

This is what you tell yourself now as you try to get your taxi driver to drive you back to your hotel to _just please fucking turn the radio down and get me back to Saigon. I didn’t mean to get lost on the tour oh my god -_

“ _Saigon!_ The hotel’s in _Saigon!_ ”

“No, no,” the driver shakes his head for the hundredth time. “No Saigon.”

“Listen, pal,” you huff, unzipping your backpack and digging your wallet out. “I will pay you so much fucking cash if you take me back to Saigon. See this?” you wave a wad of cash over the seat in a panicked haze. “You take this. And you take me back to Saigon. I'm begging you.”

“Saigon too far,” the taxi driver grunts at you, shoving your money back in your bag, and gesturing for you to get out.

“Fine. Fine,” you grumble. “Take me back to fucking Cu Chi.”

He glares at you, then turns around, starting the car’s engine back on, “Cu Chi. Not Saigon.”

“Yes. Cu Chi.”

The drive back to the tunnels is awkward. But you’re damn glad you’re actually getting somewhere as opposed to nervously walking around the edge of the forest, worrying about never getting back home.

It’s getting a bit dark as you get to the site’s entrance. You thank the driver anyway, giving him more money than the metre asked for, and hop out.

The first thing on your mind is ‘Okay. Look for security. They probably know a way out of this place, right?’

The next is: ‘Security looks pretty fucking busy throwing that twink off the back of a truck. Let’s turn back around and try to get that cab driver to drive us back to Saigon.”

And, lastly: ‘Twink is walking towards me. Why does he think this is an okay thing to do?  _What the fuck, don’t come to me, get lost by your god damn self, I’m not here to fucking assist -’_

“So… you’re stuck out here, too huh?”

He’s British. “You’re British.”

“What was that?”

“Of all the people I get stuck out here with, it’s gotta be some British punk getting himself thrown out of a car by fucking _security!_ ”

“I’m sorry, did… I offend you…?”

“No,” you grunt. “No, you didn’t. I’m having a lousy fucking day in this unbearable fucking heat, and I’m stuck here with money to spend, and fuckall to spend it on with someone I don’t know. And he’s British.”

“Oh.”

“Is that all you’re gonna say? _‘Oh?’_ ” You glare at him for a bit, but he’s just got that confused look on his face that tells you he’s not the slightest bit intimidated. All this traveling’s ridding you of your New Jersey charm, Michael Jones. You gotta do something about that fast.

“Well, I pissed off the guards back there _quite_ a lot -”

“I noticed.”

“- they’re pretty excited to get rid of me, so they’ve called up a local driver to get me back to the city,” the man raises his eyebrows at you, a smug look plastered on his face. “Thing is, I was supposed to check out of my hotel this afternoon. I’m already late for my flight, and I can’t be buggered to wait around on standby. Do you happen to have extra lodging…?”

“Fuck no.”

The guy lets out the most irritating whine you’ve ever been cursed to hear, and has the nerve to stomp his damn foot like a child. “But I’m giving you a hand! I rub your back, you rub mine. That’s how the saying goes!”

“It’s every man for himself, dumbass, you ever heard of that one?”

“I’ll pay the driver. I’ll even pay for your hotel.”

“Wow. A whole 3 bucks - oh, _I’m sorry_ \- 3 whole quid. My hero.” What the fuck is up with this guy? You know what, you can go find yourself your own god damn chauffeur. There is no way you need to sit with this douchebag the whole hour back to your place.

Tightening your grip on your backpack straps, you shove his shoulder, and walk past him. A bit juvenile, but y’know, you just got out of high school. Old habits stick.

From behind you, you hear a squawk, followed by an uneven set of footsteps. “Think about it at least!”

“No.” you say firmly. “Get another god damn Yank to bother.”

“But - _Michael_ -” the guy huffs. God damnit. Note to self: stop labeling luggage in size 40 font for fuck’s sake. “Michael, you’re my boy.”

“I am not your anything!” you shriek, turning around, and nearly bashing your eye into the guy’s nose. “And don’t fucking call me by name.”

“Michael,” the guy pouts. “We’re friends.”

“We met two minutes ago.” with that, you turn back around, heading down the road towards what you _think_ is Saigon.

“I’m from Oxfordshire.”

_Is this guy really still following you?_

“I’m 17 years old. Just out of college - I mean, high school. I think? We call it different things over there. Anyway. Would you stop walking, please, it’s hard to do two things at once -”

“No.”

“Fine.” You feel a weight at the edge of your bag, and you realise he’s latched his hand onto it while walking beside you. “I was looking for universities back in England when I thought, you know what, self? Why stay here in this wasteland when you could go travel the world while looking for a place to study? So I’m doing both! I’m Gavin, by the way. I’m Italian. I was on a Skype advert once.”

You ignore him as you keep walking down the road, even taking your phone out, and plugging your earphones in. You don’t put music on, however, but _he_ doesn’t need to know that.

“Aren’t you going to say anything about yourself, Michael...” from the corner of your eye, you see him swerve around to get a proper look at the name tag on your backpack “....Jones from New Jersey?”

That is _all_ you need to know, Gavin Free from Oxfordshire.

Gavin sighs suddenly, and claps a shoulder on your shoulder. “Well,” he says. “Looks like I have to head back now. The driver’s just arrived. Hope you find your way back fine, Michael.” And with that, he grips his own backpack straps, and hauls ass back down the road.

There is a pause. Right before you get back to your senses, and tell yourself you are _so_ above dying in the middle of a South East Asian country to spite a an irritating British twink.

“Wait up! Gavin - _wait!_ ”

He turns around. The smile he flashes you is _blinding._

You brush past him, gritting, “Car’s faster than walking. Stop fucking looking at me like that.”

“Whatever you say, Michael.”

Luckily enough, he stays quiet for the rest of the ride. A quick look down, and you see he’s got an audiobook playing. Something from that series with the dragons and the porn.

You scroll through your phone, looking for a podcast you wouldn’t mind listening to for the umpteenth time, and close your eyes for a bit.

“Michael?”

There’s a warm hand on your shoulder, and you’re just about to tell the guy to _fuck right off_ when your earphones are yanked (pretty fucking painfully) from inside your head by none other than: “Satan?”

“Huh. Close, but no cigar. I’m more of a Lucifer, I think. Irresistible beauty and all that rubbish. Anyway, the driver’s asking which hotel you’re staying at.”

You look up, and realise, at some point in the journey there, you must’ve fallen asleep. Surrounding you are about a hundred brightly lit stalls, tourists walking around crankily, and vendors trying to appeal to them.

“Like I’m telling you,” you scoff, putting your earphones back on, and telling the driver to get you to the airport. Just as you’re about to get some peace and quiet, Gavin tells the driver to stop, and hands him the money. He drags you out of the cab.

“There. Now we’re stranded again.” Gavin says. “Take us back to your hotel.”

“Look, pal,” you say. “You said a while back you had to check out of your _own_ hotel. So why don’t you go do that, go book yourself a flight, and quit fucking bothering me?"

“No, I need to make sure you won’t abandon me.”

_What the fuck is up with this guy?_

“Fine. I’m staying at this hotel,” you pass him the business card you keep in your back pocket, and turn him around. “Ask for me. I might let you in. I might not. Just get the hell back to yours, and promise to never contact me again.”

He throws you a grin over his shoulder, before running down the street, “Cheers, Michael! I’ll see you in a bit!”

“Yeah, yeah, good fucking riddance,” you grunt, before trudging back to your own hotel.

You did your research, so your hotel’s pretty close by. Right in the centre of everything. The receptionist grins at you as you step in, handing you your keys. You wave back tiredly as you wait for the elevator.

It’s the middle of July, and, admittedly, meeting Gavin Free has been the most interesting part of your summer. You’ve already figure out in your first week that traveling alone was a terrible plan. Of course, you’ve met some decent people along the way, but none of them really had time to sit down, and talk like he wanted. Always on a rush to catch up on a tour, or meeting up with the rest of the family or whatever.

Truth be told, you might have gotten along with the other man a lot better if he’d caught you in a different circumstance.

Obviously not the ‘stuck in the middle of a Vietnamese jungle while frantically trying to bribe a local taxi driver to take you back to your 3 dollar hotel’ kind of circumstance, but you know.

You get to your floor, and dump your bag at the doorway before dragging yourself - fully clothed and all - into the shower.

In the middle of stripping off your clothes, you hear a soft knock at the door, and call out for whoever it is - no point guessing - to get in. “The door’s not locked.”

“That’s not safe, Michael,” you hear Gavin warn you through the bathroom door. You hear his baggage fall the floor, as he lets out a squawk. “There’s only one bed!”

“Yes. Because I came here alone. All by myself. With my singular body. That required just one bed,” you deadpan. “ _Gavin, what the fuck did you expect?_ ”

“I’ve got two beds.” Gavin says proudly.

“ _I’ve got two beds_ ,” you mimic quietly, making a face at yourself.

“One for me. One for my luggage.”

“Well, buddy, like _my_ luggage, you can sleep on the floor.”

“ _Michael!_ ”

“We are not sharing a bed!” you yell, finally finishing up, and turning the shower off. You wrap a towel around your waist, and poke your head out the door. He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, fiddling with the controls of the TV remote. “You’re just here for one night, right?”

He nods his head at you, eyes glued to the television.

“Then I’m calling for an extra mattress, and, Gavin?”

“Yes, Michael?”

“Stop whining like a god damn child.”

He rolls his eyes at you, but nods. Content, you slip back in the shower, putting a pair of boxers on, and trudging back into your bedroom.

You two got back pretty late, and Gavin’s out as soon as his head hits the mattress. You’ve got an entirely different tour to catch tomorrow so you follow soon after, checking your phone for e-mails and a couple updates.

Your application for the University of Texas is still pending, and the thought still sets you on edge sometimes, but you don't let it bother you too much. You've got other options anyway. That's the good thing about working for an electric company while still in High School. You make connections, and you figure out the kinds of people that like you, and the kinds of people that don't.

You look over at Gavin, silently wondering about his own plans for College - no, wait, _University._ The guy strikes you as someone who runs into luck often. Hell, he'd probably end up in some fancy ass school with a full scholarship for shaking the principal's hand the right way.

"Pure dumb luck," you murmur sleepily, tucking your phone under your pillow, and turning on your side. 

The morning after, you wake up with the extra mattress gone, and no sign of the Brit ever having been with you.

It's just as well, you think. As long as you never have to see him again.

 


	2. Cambodia

"Chris Demarais, you didn't tell me you were a world traveler, you sly sonuvabitch!" you ram your foot into the guys ass, slamming him into the urinal.

The guy in front of you - decidedly not Chris Demarais - squawks loudly.

"You complete wanker!" Gavin shrieks, zipping his trousers back up. Definitely not Chris Demarais. "Do you have any idea how disgusting a urinal is? Do you?" he reaches for your pants, weakly dragging you towards the porcelain bowl.

You slap his hand away angrily as he makes a grab for your zipper. "Fucking get over it! I thought you were someone else!"

Gavin’s hunched over, breathing hard. Without warning, he rugby tackles you to the ground. You look up at him, and see that he’s just as surprised as you are. Who knew the skinny bastard had it in him?

He lets out a laugh, and tries to get up, but loses his balance, falling backwards onto the grimy floor.  It’s easy to turn on him from this position. You get him caught in a chokehold quick, and drag him outside where people can stop staring at the both of you.

"What the fuck is your problem!" you yell, throwing him into the sand.

"What's my problem? _WHAT’S MY PROBLEM?_ " he sputters, pushing himself up so he can look you in the eye. He’s taller than you, so, yeah, it’s got a pretty big impact. "You're a basket case, that's what! Here I am enjoying my time alone, and you come storming in, Mr Michael Jones, introducing my knob to a bloody urinal! So, let me rephrase: what the _fuck_ is _your_ problem?"

He’s glaring holes into you, and you easily match him, automatically stepping into his personal space. You’ve probably got an inch of difference between your faces, your nose nearly touching his cheek, but he doesn’t flinch. Just says quietly, “What are you doing in Cambodia?”

“Tracking you down for the agency I’m working with. _What the fuck do you think, shithole?_ I’m on vacation,” you say, then turn the question back at him. “What are you doing in Cambodia?”

He looks at you, unsure of himself, before saying simply, “I’m meeting up with some friends.”

“Right.” you tell him, nodding, and holding out your hand. "Truce?"

"Whatever." he ignores your hand before heading back down towards the beach.

You're still feeling a bit guilty about the whole sticking-his-dick-to-the-side-of-a-toilet thing so you follow him back. He’s got a little camp set out right by the edge of the water. All cartoon-like, with the striped beach towel, and bright red umbrella sticking out of the sand. He’s even got a small bucket on the side, like he’s about to make sand castles.

You tell him to go pack up, and meet you at a bar. You owe him a drink and a tall bottle of hand sanitizer - or gasoline, if he keeps looking at you like that.

“I am not setting my dick on fire, Michael!”

“Then _fucking go,_ ” you grind out, kicking some sand onto him, “before I change my god damn mind.”

He squawks loudly, then bends over to pack up his things. Yours are all the way on the other side of the beach, so you hitch a ride onto somebody else’s dune buggy to get to it. You’ve gotten a bit better at that sort of thing since Vietnam. The whole ‘hey, I’m a tourist, and you can totally help me out, so help me out’ sort of thing. Yeah, sure, Gavin was the first person to give you a helping hand, but that doesn’t really matter. It was bound to happen at _one point_. The whole lone wolf, lone ranger sort of deal just doesn’t sit so well with you. Plus, you’ve met some amazing people. Like that one drunken asshole in Jakarta with the handlebar mustache. Or that one guy your age in Boracay you were forced to share a room with after hotel management almost kicked him out for being violently drunk in the hallways.

If anything, your facebook page’s certainly gotten more interesting since Vietnam. Every new country you set foot on doesn’t make your throat feel so tight anymore, and you start imagining yourself doing this for a lot longer than the initial year.

You reach your side of the beach, gesturing for the guy to wait there while you get your things. You shove a few coins into his hand, and pass him the business card to the bar closest to where Gavin was settled at.

It’s a beautiful place. You’ve been here a few days ago with some other kids your age off on their grad trip. The kinds of kids that had winter cabins and yachts in Greece. Also the kinds of kids that insisted on paying for your food, so you couldn’t really mouth off about it.

The place only uses second-hand furniture so it’s a whole mismatch of vintage chairs and tables. Oil lamps covering the set outside, and fairy lights decorating the inside - where people are more likely to get drunk and tip things over.

You see Gavin sitting by the seats closest to the beach, and realise too late that this might have been a bad move. God, what if he thinks you’re asking him out on a date?

Before you can over think the whole thing, however, you call out to him, and walk over to where he’s sitting.

“It’s really fancy, Michael,” he grins, tucking his phone away.

“It’s nothing special. You’ve probably seen hundreds of these wherever you’ve been,” you snort, going through the menu. Quickly picking out a meal and a drink, and confirming that Gavin’s gotten his, you both call out to a waiter and tell him what you want. “Before you get any crazy ideas, I’m paying for the whole thing, okay?”

“Michael, you are _so_ smooth,” he grins, giving the waiter your menus.

“I said don’t get any crazy ideas,” you warn him, raising your eyebrows. Intimidating. Like a mild-mannered bear.

“But, Michael, you’re being so romantic.”

“You shut the fuck up.”

“Look, they’re bringing us wine!” he pipes up. “Are you going to propose? Am I going to find an engagement ring at the bottom of the glass?”

“That’s for the couple behind us, idiot,” you grumble. “And who says I’d propose to you with a ring in a fucking wine glass? You’d choke on it before I even got out of my seat.”

“You care _so_ much! You are _so_ thoughtful!” Gavin coos, stretching his hand across the table, and poking you on the nose. At this point, you know he's doing it just to annoy you.

“I’m never taking you out to dinner again. Right after this, I am renting a boat, and dragging you out to sea where I will then bash your head into the side of the boat until you lose consciousness,” he opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off, glaring as you accept a plate of calamari from the server. “Be quiet and eat your god damn food.”

The dinner goes by quickly. Gavin tells you it almost makes up for the urinal incident, and you almost tip his drink over his head.

Since Vietnam, the guy's been all over the South East; not only visiting each countries' tourist destinations, but actually taking the time to explore hidden spots by himself. He tells you he needs to film a lot so he can put together a good portfolio one day. That if he made enough content, a major company might be interested enough to take him on as a cinematographer.

He shows you a few clips he's edited on his phone, and, you've got to admit, you're pretty fucking impressed. This guy might be all smiles and badly timed tantrums on the outside, but he sure knows what he's doing.

He asks you what you're up to, touring Asia, and you realise too late that you don't actually have a legitimate answer. You didn't really plan for a gap year, but your SATs made it impossible to get into any of the colleges you wanted. You had some leftover money and time to kill, and simply thought 'Why the hell not?'

This is what you tell him over dinner. And he seems interested enough, asking, "What did you want to major in?"

"Engineering."

"Ooh, that's a difficult one."

"They're all difficult, asshole," you point out. "It's fucking college."

"Michael, why do you have to swear so much? And you're so violent. It must be your gammy Yankee genes."

"Speak for yourself. You think you're so god damn posh?"

“I’m not the one sticking people’s knobs to public toilets here.”

“I told you, I thought you were someone else.”

He leans over, cheeky grin suddenly plastered on his dumb face, and whispers, “You wanna make it up to me?”

“Sure.”

“Let’s go clubbing! Let’s go out for a proper night out in town, and actually go clubbing! There might even be drugs involved!”

“Gavin, for as long as you have known me, do you think I would ever consciously decide to be around you while you’re _high?_ You’re bad enough sober!”

“But - _Michael_ -” he whines. The waiter comes by, handing you the bill, and you glare at _the literal 4 year old_ as you sign it. “We’re abroad!”

“I don’t fucking care! You’re not getting high, and that’s final.”

You both leave your bags at the restaurant - they’re open until dawn anyway - and head out to the nearest bar.

It’s dark, the music’s loud, and - surprise, surprise - Gavin gets high.

You know this because,

a) this shifty looking guy’s been eyeing up your boy the moment you entered

b) after your first round of drinks, you literally see Gavin leaving with the shifty looking guy

c) Gavin is currently puking his guts out while you hold his beard back for him

“I told you not to get high.”

“You shut your mingin’ mouth, Michael Jones.”

“I’m _just saying -_ ”

“If you really cared, you would’ve gone and kicked the guy’s arse for me, but you didn’t.”

“Yeah, because I’m busy wiping your god damn face, and trying to keep hair out of your mouth. Wow. Yeah. I’m a total asshole. So sorry,” you rub his back, and tilt his head towards you. There’s gunk all over his beard, and he whines while you wipe it off with a damp towel. “You shut the fuck up. What the hell did he even give you?”

“Like - one marijuana.”

“Gavin.”

“What, Michael?”

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

“ _What? What did I do?_ ” he panics. “Michael - Michael, please stop laughing.”

“You - you took one pull and this fucking happened?”

“It really itched my throat! I couldn’t help it!”

“Gavin,” you ruffle his hair, and pull him up, throwing the stained paper towel into the bin. “Come on, let’s get you home. This place is obviously too wild for you.”

Gavin whines all the way back to the bar. _He hasn’t lived yet_ he says. _The night’s just getting started_ he says. _You’re ruining all the fun_ he says.

“Michael, Michael, do you know?” he mumbles, rubbing his face into your shoulder, “You’ve got a stick shoved so far up your arse that you get a perfect sodding imprint of your internal organs when you pull it out.”

“Gavin, I’m this close to dumping you in the middle of the street.”

“Well, good riddance, then! S’not like I wanted to meet you in Cambodia anyway! Go keep touring all by your sorry god damn self, Michael Jones! I won’t miss you - _ah! What was that for?”_

You shake your hand out, and crack your knuckles. “You gonna be quiet now or what?”

“As the grave…” he mumbles.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Silent as the grave, me,” he rolls his eyes, and allows you to hold him up under the arms again. He holds true to his word the rest of the way back to the restaurant. The place is bustling now, filled with tourists from all four corners of the earth. Some, you see eyeing Gavin up. Instinctively, you clutch him a little tighter. Little Britain’s got enough adventure for one night.

“Where’s your hotel, Gav?”

He looks guilty, clutching the strap of his backpack a little tighter.

“Gavin?”

“It’s two hours away from here,” before you can hit him for the hundredth time that night, he continues, “I was supposed to be sleeping over with a friend, but - I think he’s got a girl over right now. So…”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, “This is the last time. I fucking swear -”

“Thanks, Michael! I’ll pay for the cab!”

Gavin is a lot calmer once he’s sobering up, you realise. He’s got this line in the middle of his eyebrows all the way back to your hotel, and you’re halfway to smoothing it out with your thumb, before you catch yourself. He’s got his problems. You’ve got yours. And you don’t need to be a god damn pest about it.

Silently, you begin to wonder if you’ll ever meet him again. If two chance meetings was it for the both of you. Gavin puts his leg over yours, and you find that you don’t mind so much.

“You don’t have to leave.” the words are out of your mouth before you have a chance to stop them. “You can stay with me for the rest of the trip. I’ll appreciate the company.”

He looks apologetic as he shakes his head. Says, “I’ve got plans, Michael. But - I’d love to someday.” he grins at you, and turns his head back towards the window.

Just like the last 5 weeks that passed, the room you wake up to is empty. It’s familiar in a way that leaves you longing for something more, and you find that you cannot wait to get back home to New Jersey. To Jack and Caiti and the new dog they got to replace you.

It’s in Cambodia that you promise yourself you will take one month out of every year that follows to make up for your sudden change of heart.

You promise yourself _one more trip_ , and then you're going on a plane straight for home.


	3. Hong Kong | Jersey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a bit longer. I'll try to get a chapter out every week. Feedback would be extremely nice (and has been very nice so far. Every comment/kudos has brightened up my day immensely). EDIT: I added a picture towards the end. If you'd like to see more stuff like that please tell me in the comments.

_Dear Mr Jones_

_It is with regret that I write to inform you that we are unable to offer you admission to the freshman class at the University of Texas. Please know that this decision does not reflect any deficiency or weakness in your application…_

It’s drizzling on the mountains of South Lantau.

You stand there long enough that the rain seeps through your clothes. A relief in the immense heat.

Jack sent you a picture of the letter a week ago, after you told him to _just get the hell on with it, and no I don’t want to open it by myself._ He’d sent a quick apology and a picture of Emma to go along with it, but it didn’t really do anything to make you feel any better.

What the fuck were you supposed to do now?

Gavin had said he was looking for Universities while touring, and putting together a portfolio while he was at it, so maybe you could do the same?

After Jersey, you could.

You hear light footsteps coming towards you at full speed, and then a man is turning the corner, dressed in the tiniest running shorts, and a number pinned to his ass. Fuck. Is there a marathon going on today?

“G’day!”

Two more runners come after the first guy, and you realise that, shit, you totally got caught in the middle of a marathon.

“Beautiful day out!”

“It is - yeah.”

“Oof! Watch out.”

“I will.”

“Out of the way, please.”

“Go right ahead.”

_“....Michael?”_

You turn your head so fast it gives you whiplash. He can’t be here. Not again. This is literally too fucking much for one lifetime.

“Michael! Michael, it _is_ you!”

He ruffles your hair as he passes, and waves. He doesn’t look like he’s slowing down any time soon, so you do what any other person would. You run after him in the middle of a god damn marathon.

“Michael, what do you think you’re doing?”

“This might be the last time I see you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he scoffs. “You can always look me up online.”

His strides are longer than yours, and you’re quickly getting swallowed up by the crowd behind him. Just as you’re about to yell at him to slow the fuck down, he turns around, frowning, “I can’t talk right now, love, I’m really sorry. I’m trying to make it to first place.”

“Oh.” you stop right there. In the middle of the track. “Good luck, then.”

He flashes you a smile before speeding up again. “Knowing you’re here, I won’t need it. You’re my strange little good luck charm, Michael Jones!”

A dozen runners weave themselves past you, and soon enough, you lose sight of the other man. Who would’ve thought the fucker was a marathon runner, huh? You move aside, taking a drink, and letting the majority of the crowd come through. This mountain isn’t that steep, and you’ve been walking continuously this whole trip, but something in you feels pretty heavy. You’re hoping Jersey will fix it, but you’re not quite sure it will.

You stay in Hong Kong for another week, constantly on a lookout for the shaggy haired Brit. You _could_ look him up on the internet, but where’s the fun in that? There’s gotta be some reason why you two keep meeting up the way you do. You’re not about to jinx this whole thing just because you’re - what - _eager?_

It’s not like you’re shitting yourself to meet this guy. It’s just funny; you bump into someone often enough, and it turns into the sort of thing you could tell stories about.

You can totally see it now. 58 year old you sitting on a rocking chair, waxing poetic about that idiot kid that kept bothering you at 18. Idly, you wonder if he ever thinks about you like this. What with everything thats going on in that boys life, he probably doesn't.

You tell yourself its nothing.

You meet loads of people in trips like these, and you can't remember half their names. Hell, you can't remember most of their fucking faces.

Okay. So, forget 58 year old Michael. Forget 58 year old Gavin. By the time your life gets back on track you're gonna forget all about this boy, and he won't matter the tiniest bit.

Third time’s the charm, and if he’s not gonna stick around like he’s always done, then that’s his fucking problem, isn’t it? Gavin Free can go win his god damn marathon, and live his fucking life filming foreign countries all he wants and, you, Michael Jones, can… you sigh, and hand the cab driver what’s left of your money, before walking down to the airport, because you, Michael Jones, can pick your sorry ass from the ground, and make something for yourself college or no college.

Checking in is easy. The airport is beautiful here, and everything’s laid out simple. It’s like the internet in physical form! You find your gate pretty quickly, noting the empty benches set out in front of it and the bored looking families waiting for the doors to open.

Jack gives you a call just before you board the plane. Just a quick “Hey, kiddo, we miss you back here” kinda thing. It doesn’t comfort you as much as it should have, but the embarrassed “Missed you, too, dad” that followed was anything but forced.

Jack’s been your father figure ever since you could remember. You don’t remember anything about your actual family, but you do remember Jack holding your hand the entire drive to your first day of kindergarten, Jack dropping you off a block away from high school so he didn’t have to embarrass you in front of your friends, Jack telling you it was okay if you didn’t like girls, if you wanted to watch that dumb pony show and buy toys about it. It was Jack who hugged you when you told him girls were okay. You just didn’t want to fool around with anybody.

Jack was the one who told you he had you. He knew how it was. You’ve always worn your heart on your sleeve and it’s made you reserved in more ways than others.

You look up from your phone just as they announce the final call for your flight, and rush to the counter.

Looking around, you’ve still got a sliver of hope a gangly whatever-year-old’s gonna show up, waving his ticket in the air, and screaming about not missing the flight. But the gate’s empty, and the lady behind the counter is urging you in before they close the doors.

You find your seat easily enough, and stow away your backpack in the overhead locker quickly enough. That’s the good thing about being a light packer. Everything fits in a giant backpack and you don’t have to worry about missing any luggage.

You take a seat just as the speakers crackle on, and a deep voice comes through, introducing himself as Captain James Ryan.

“...on behalf of Haywood Airlines, I would like to welcome you all aboard flight 840 Hong Kong to JFK. Our flight to New York will last approximately 12 hours. We’re expecting a little rain on the trip there so expect a little bit of turbulence. Other than that, we should have a fairly smooth ride. Once again, we thank you for choosing to fly with us, and we hope you enjoy your flight.”

Maybe Jack was right.

Before you flew out here, him and Caiti have been nothing but supportive of you going out for what you wanted. Jack, though… the whole week before you left, he had this constant look in his eye like he didn’t want you to go. The day you left, he woke you up, and told you he was happy you were growing up and being independent and all. He told you he hoped you’d find whatever it was you were looking for out there, whether it was just yourself or something else or  - or someone else.

You told him he had it all wrong, you weren’t looking for anything. You had a bit of time to waste before college, and you were spending it in the best way you knew how. And it was good. Laos was good. Malaysia was good. Vietnam, Cambodia, and Hong Kong were all good. But, now, you miss home, and you don’t think you could have ever found yourself in any of those places, or any place, really.

Sleep comes easily.

Halfway through the flight, on your way out of the bathroom, one of the attendants working the back calls you over to ask if that’s a tattoo of Link on your forearm.

“Yeah, it is,” you yawn. “You play video games?”

“When I’m not stuck in a flying metal tube, yeah,” she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and leans against the wall.

“Way to make a guy feel comfortable.”

Handing you a bottle of water, she sticks her hand out to shake, “I’m Lindsay.”

“Michael.”

“You travelling by yourself?”

“Yep. Have been for a while.”

“So you’re headed home to New York?”

“Nah. Jersey.”

“Oh. Well, just call me up if you need anything. I’ll be happy to help.”

“Actually - do you mind if I stay back here a bit longer?”

She’s smiling when she says, “Not at all.” Pulls back a seat, and tells you to get settled while she steals some dessert from the First Class area of the plane.

You sit there for hours, talking about video games, and foreign restaurants, and everything else under the sun. It’s easy to slip into conversation with this girl, and you find yourself laughing so hard it hurts to breathe. A dozen times people have turned around in their seats to tell you to be quiet, and Lindsay finally has to ask you to go back so she can go sleep.

Before you go, she brings out a slip of paper from her pocket, and starts writing her number on it. “Don’t you forget me, Michael Jones.”

“I won’t.”

You slide the paper in your back pocket and head on right back to your seat. You’re out the moment your ass hits the seat, and you don’t see her for the rest of the flight.

It’s all a bit of a hassle trying to get through customs and the million x-ray machines they’ve got planted on the way outside of the building, but you get there.

Jack’s standing at the visitor’s area holding a huge banner along with Caiti.

“You’ve really grown your hair out! I almost didn’t recognise you!” she tugs on your ponytail, pulling you down for a hug, and you try not to blush when you tell her she’s kind of embarrassing you. “Well, I missed you, Michael Jones so don’t even think of complaining.”

“All right.”

Jack rolls up the banner, and walks over to the two of you. “It’s good to have you back, kiddo.”

“It’s good to be back, daddy-o.”

The drive back home is silent except for the quiet hum of the radio. Jack tries to ask you about your trip a few times, but gives up after you grunt for the 5th time in a row.

“You sure you’re ready to be back?” he asks, once Caiti’s back in the house, and he’s outside with you, making sure the car’s locked. “You seem - off.”

“Nah, it’s just a bit of culture shock. Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, it’s good to have you back. I really meant it, Michael,” he says, taking your bag from you, and grunting from the weight of it. “Come on, I’ve found some work for you to do while you were away. Should keep you busy for a few months before you get itchy feet again.”


	4. Jersey | Thailand

“Mom? Dad? I’m home!”

“Hold on a minute!”

“Pants are coming off!”

“Goddamit, Michael!”

“Pants are off!” you yell, throwing them on the stair railings.

“At least put them in the hamper,” Jack groans, running in from the backyard.

You give him a shrug, turning towards the stairs, and running up to your room. It’s been a long fucking day at work. The electric company on the other side of town had been shut down temporarily, and you’d been running from home to home trying to explain to everyone that _no_ their computers weren’t broken, _no_ their lights didn’t need changing, and _no_ their water heaters were totally fine. _Ma’am/Sir, please contact your electric provider, not the local electrician. Thank you very much._

Okay, so today wasn’t ideal. Today was a fucking bitch and a half, and, really, you just want to walk around the house in your underwear, maybe playing video games, maybe jacking off, maybe drowning yourself in half a bottle of tequila. Whatever takes the edge off, really.

But dad’s chasing after you, pulling you down by your shirt, and telling you you’ve got a guest waiting by the pool.

“Why’d you invite someone over?” you whine, marching after him. “You know how fucking tired I am after work.”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” he says, rolling his eyes. “By the way, yeah, don’t put your pants back on or anything. Not like I didn’t just tell you someone important is over.”

“By ‘important’ do you mean professional-important or I-want-to-impress-my-relatives-important?”

“Something along the lines of you-have-not-seen-this-guy-in-a-while-important, but that's not gonna get you to put your pants back on, is it?” he says, sliding the screen doors open. He urges you outside with a smack to your ass, and follows after you.

Whoever’s waiting has their back to you, black hair poking out over his seat.

“Uh… hey?”

Black hair rotates 90 degrees, and you’re met with a pale forehead, and deepset eyes.

“Oh my god.”

“Michael…” Joel says slowly, getting up, and approaching you timidly.

“Oh my god!”

“Mi - Michael Jones -”

You turn towards your father accusingly, before running after your uncle, and jumping onto him. “Dad didn’t tell me you were back from Rio!”

“You seemed incredibly busy,” Jack huffs, crossing his arms.

“Not _that_ busy!” you grin, pulling back, “Okay, c’mon, what did you bring home for me?”

Ever since you were little, Joel _always_ went away, but that was all right because Joel _always_ brought something back. You’re this close to checking the guy’s pockets, but that would require getting down, and losing the temporary feeling of being tall.

“I didn’t bring back a _thing,_ exactly…” he mumbles, awkwardly trying to pull you off of him.

“Aw, that’s shitty of you,” you hop off, and tug on the edge of your beanie. Jack scolds you from the door, but it’s pretty easy ignoring him. “So what _did_ you bring?”

"Jack told me you went back to your old job -"

"Sure keeps his mouth shut, that one."

Ignoring your comment, he carries on, "And - and - I know how much you loved being abroad, and not here so -" Looking directly at you, Joel stands a little taller. "I have this guy who owns a video game shop, and business isn’t really all that good for him -”

“You’re trying to get me to quit my job?” you look at your dad for confirmation. He nods slightly, and, you can feel yourself getting angrier.

Ever since you got back, dad’s been up your ass about college. And, no, he wasn’t interested in being a _normal god damn parent_ in this department, he was interested in being the dickhole parent that tried to be _sympathetic_ and _understanding_. Something you so desperately tried to avoid when you got the rejection letter, because, hey, you don’t fucking need any pity from anyone. College didn’t want you. Fuck them. You don’t _want_ college.

The last thing on your mind is sitting down to talk about how you feel about this whole shitshow. Really, you'd rather just forget it altogether. Carry on with your mediocre life with your mediocre job and your below average social life.

But Jack’s been so _frustratingly_ optimistic about it, saying shit about how college was never _for_ you anyway, and how you only signed up for it cause _everyone else did,_ and what really pissed you off, what _really_ made you want to punch holes through your bedroom wall, was that _he was fucking right._

And so you picked up where you left off with the electric company, and worked your ass of for a measly pay, just so you could show your dad you could still be worth fucking something. And the asshole - the fucking _prick_ tells you to really think about if you were trying to prove something to him or to yourself, because, and you quote, “You don’t have to prove yourself to me, Michael. You’ve always been more than enough.”

God _dammit_ , can’t you just be upset about things and be left alone to do it?

“ - he sells secondhand consoles, and, they’re 100% usable, but - faulty. I’m not really the right guy to explain what’s going on, but he needs an electrician.”

Your eyes flicker back to Joel, and you barely keep yourself from shouting when you grit out, “What’s the catch?”

“He - he’s a really well-mannered kid. His shop is so cosy. I’ve been there a few times myself, I mean -”

“What’s the catch, Joel?” you ask again, getting a impatient.

“His name is _Ray,_ ” he draws out the name slowly, looking up at Jack for assistance. “And he lives in _Thailand._ His apartment is a few blocks away from the shop. It’s called…Versus, cause it’s funny, you see -”

“But the thing is, it’s in Thailand,” you repeat, making sure Joel’s gotten the message.

The message being that you do not want to be in Asia. The message being that Asia was a quick escape from all the stress that was public exams, and graduating, and _college, fucking college_ \- not some - permanent residence you can just take up out of nowhere.

“Thailand’s gonna be good for you, Michael,” Jack says, uncrossing his arms. “You were so happy when you were abroad. Now, you’re kinda just _eh_.”

You glare at him, and he raises his hands up in apology. The silent _‘you gotta admit, I’m right’_ is heavily implied, and it pisses you off even more.

“How are you even sure I’m gonna get along with this Ray guy?” you scowl, stepping away from the both of them.

“You get along with everyone,” Joel says, tilting his head to the side.

“Yeah, but -”

“Michael, you _need_ this.” Jack finally says, stepping in. “Just tell Uncle Joel thank you, and that you’ll be on the first plane out of here as soon as you can.”

“Dad, you’re _not_ kicking me out -”

“I’m not kicking you out, I am providing you with opportunities -”

“You’re totally kicking me out -”

“- as a father should. Michael, I’m not kicking you out.”

“JOEL!” you finally scream. “C’mon and help! You’re the one who got me into this!”

“I’m - I am not - this isn’t -”

“Joel, you can leave if you want,” Jack says calmly.

“Dad, no!”

“Dad, yes,” Jack says, picking Joel up, and throwing him out the door. “Michael, you’re taking that job, and you’re flying out to Thailand as soon as you’ve got your work visa. It’s not like you’ve got any friends to say goodbye to anyway.”

“You’re being a fucking jerk!”

He raises an eyebrow at you, and you let out a shriek of frustration, lip jutting out, and brows furrowed so close together they’ll probably end up stuck that way.

“ _Fine_ ,” you say, fuming. “I’ll go to Thailand, but I _won’t_ be happy about it.”

“You say that _now_.”

“You are so frustrating!”

“And you’re acting like a child!”

You glare at him before turning around, and making your way up the stairs, making as much noise as possible. Like a _mature_ 19 year old. Like a 19 year old that’s following his father’s wishes to go halfway across the fucking _world._

God _dammit._

Some time in the week, he apologises to you for bringing that up with hardly any warning. It takes some time (and a million deep breathing exercises) but you tell him it’s fine. You get that he’s just trying to help.

He tells you he's always worried, regardless of how well you're doing by yourself. It’s his damn job to be worried.

He knows college would have ended up making you miserable, and, to be honest, Thailand would be an incredible fresh start. Something he'd been ecstatic for when the opportunity arose. “If you don't believe in it,” he says, “then try for a little bit. Stop hiding yourself from the rest of the world when it's waiting right there in front of you. Because you'll never know what you're gonna get out of it.”

So after another six gruelling months of odd jobs and sending documents back and forth from Joel to Ray to Joel to you and, eventually, to the Thai Embassy, you finally get your work visa. (Joel was insistent your first meeting with Ray be genuine, and not some awkward talk between two lousy internet connections on Skype).

Jack signs you up for a flight first thing, and before you know it, you're off the plane, stepping out into tremendous heat despite it being the middle of February.

You meet Ray at a small cafe just inside the visitors area. He's short, Hispanic, and three times younger than you assumed he'd be.

"Wow, you're Ray?" You say, taking the man’s hand and shaking it nervously.

"What?" He says. "Did I not live up to your expectations?"

"I just -"

"Imagined a wrinkly old man? Yeah, yeah, Joel warned me about that."

You both sit down across from each other, and he tells you to order something before you two take a cab home.

"Wait, you don't drive?"

"Nope."

"Dude you live in fucking Thailand… How do you not drive?"

"I'm sorry, but have you seen the way people drive here? I'd rather not."

"Seriously, how are you not broke - or dead?"

"I'm a menacing little man, Michael Jones. Stick with me and no one’s gonna mess with your pale ass."

"Speak for yourself," you scoff. Putting the menu down and demanding that he decide on a goddamn order.

You click instantly. This is the first time you've had a decent conversation with somebody in two years, and you silently remind yourself to send Jack a big thank you package for being so insistent (and supportive) about Thailand.

Ray, you find out, used to live in New York before he moved down here. He used to work for a video game store that was built under his apartment back when he still went to middle school. The lady who owned it loved the shit out of him. Much more than her own kids.

She passed away when Ray was 17, and passed down the business to her eldest son - a sex therapist who had no interest in anything digital whatsoever. So you can only guess how that turned out.

"So he told me I could have the shop. None of his siblings wanted it, and it's what his mom would've wanted anyway. But by then my dad had already moved us down to Thailand cause of his job. I'm telling you, Mr Sex Therapist _really_ wanted me to have the business, but he knew there was no goddamn way I was gonna make it setting up in new York like his momma, so he shipped everything in the store down here no charge!" He grins, slurping down the last of his frappucino. "Although I did have to buy the shop space myself and... that motherfucker cost a ton! 18 year old with 2 cents and entire library of video games to his name? It's a miracle I lasted this long."

"And how long is 'this long' exactly?" you ask worriedly.

"9 months. Give or take."

And finally, you get it. Why it took so long for you to get your work visa. why getting in contact with this - this _kid_ \- was such a goddamn hassle. And why Joel was so fucking secretive about it. "Fucking hell. I'm working for a baby."

"Excuse you."

You roll your eyes and tell him you're paying for the meal. At the rate he's going, he can't afford to spend on anything extra.

You tell him this as you sign the receipt, and he laughs and asks if Joel's showed you the statistics he sent. "I'm guessing not,” he quips, getting up from his seat. "Man, he really wanted to surprise you, didn't he?"

"That’s Joel for you.”

"Listen, I needed some extra help, but I'm not incompetent," he says, suddenly serious, "there's a reason I'm friends with a guy obsessed with gold and investment companies. I might have skipped the whole college fiasco, but I know my shit. You trust me?"

Sliding your backpack straps over your shoulders, you nod. "What’ve I got to lose?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finding it really ironic that I'm unable to update my travel fic as often as I want because I have been traveling so much. I don't think I'm getting on a plane any time soon though, so I'm hoping to get back on schedule.


	5. Italy I

_Circled all the places I thought you might like. Don't come home til your wallet’s empty._

_xoxo Ray_

 

That motherfucker. That scheming, lying motherfucker.

You march down to the reception - angry ball of rage and all - and demand to know when exactly one Ray Narvaez Jr left to go halfway across the fucking globe.

For one thing, you didn’t ask to get dragged to Europe. You didn’t ‘accidentally overhear’ the video conference Ray had with Roosterteeth; you fucking walked in, asked Ray if he wanted a coffee, and he asked you if you wanted to go to Barcelona.

“It’ll be fun” he said. “You’ll be able to keep that dumb travelling promise you made” he said. “Stop whining, and hand the nice lady your boarding pass” he said.

Ray’s had a raging boner for Roosterteeth since he was a kid, and you’d know, because he never shuts up about it; the first thing he did when he walked you through his store was show you an autographed picture of Gus Sorola and tell you that that was a once in a lifetime opportunity and that if you ever so much as breathed on it, he’d kill you.

So, yeah, _obviously_ he had to take you with him to Barcelona (“because if I had a heart attack mid-flight, you’re the only one I trust to perform CPR” “I don’t think that’s quite how it works” “Eh, we’ll wing it”). He tells you he’s leaving the store to Kdin and Caleb, the same two kids that come around every week, and conveniently forget to purchase anything. Really thinks of everything, your boss.

With the business part of the trip done (involving zero heart attacks and zero rescue attempts thank you very much), Ray, in a sudden surge of in inspiration, tells you it’d be a _great_ idea to catch a bus to France. It’s a country away, and, really, why waste a good vacation on _one country?_ He tells you to get comfortable, because he’ll take care of everything. He’s your boss, after all. So after snagging the entire last row of the bus, you fall asleep, and he wakes you up in Milan.

_Milan._

Okay, so, after two years of working for the prick, you really should know by now that when Ray sleeps, _you fucking stay awake_. It doesn’t matter if you’ve gone through a week of customs, immigration officers, jetlag, ill-fitting suits, and forced smiles, _you fucking stay awake_ , because if you don’t, everything taking up residence in hell’s asshole breaks loose, and right now, everything taking up residence in hell’s asshole is a 5-letter word, followed by a shrill _“Motherfucker! Milan?”_

So yeah, you’re understandably angry when you wake up to find a cheap note taped to your forehead, and the other half of your traveling group missing and back in Thailand.

You tap out a nervous rhythm on the reception desk, and after the longest minute of your life, the manager looks up from his monitor to tell you the man in question left at 6 in the morning. You tell him thank you. Because you’re polite. Because you were raised in a household where people do not just _fucking_ abandon you in the middle of a foreign country under the guise of a business-trip-turned-quick-trip-to-france-oops-did-i-say-france-i-meant-italy.

So screw Ray’s pseudo love letter and screw his intricately planned instructions, because you, Michael Jones, are a mildly successful world traveler, and if you wanna stay in Milan then you’re damn well gonna stay in Milan, and if you wanna race after your ex-best friend so you can beat his ass to a pulp instead, then you damn well will.

Bags barely clinging to your aching shoulders, you ask the manager for a cab out of here, and he stares at you, and he _stares_ , and… "If you are looking to chase after your boyfriend, then you are fresh out of luck. All flights are full today. You'd have a better chance tomorrow."

It takes an immense amount of effort not to yell this man down. You grit your teeth, tell him thank you, and hail a cab yourself. One reaches you within seconds, and understands completely your intent to rush down to airport so you can teach your boss a lesson. Or at least. He looks as if he understands.

Anyone who’s terrified enough looks as if they understand you at some point or another.

Halfway to the airport the fucker gets stuck in the middle of traffic. Like what the fuck. This is Milan for fuck’s sake, aren't the streets supposed to be calm and relaxing? To make things worse, some asshole comes running towards your cab, yelling it for it to wait (like he needs to; you've been stuck in this same spot for the last quarter of an hour) and has the nerve to land on your lap, screaming "Theater, please!" right into your ear.

"Get the fuck off me!"

"Oh my god, I am so sorry I -"

"Gavin?"

"...Michael?"

"Holy shit. Holy shit. What the fuck are you doing here?"

You gotta be honest with yourself. You thought this guy was made up. You thought he was a fucking figment of your imagination way before Thailand, cause there was absolutely no fucking way you could ‘accidentally’ bump into the same guy this number of times without planning it. Without some sort of divine intervention butting into your life and going ‘hey, you two are kinda stuck to each other for eternity. Work it out. Do your thing’. But, no, he’s right here. Half on your lap. Half not. Looking just as puzzled.

“Gavin, what are you doing here?” you ask again, more slowly.

He shakes his head, and blinks at you, stammering,"I'm helping a friend out - with his premier. What are you doing here?"

He looks at you for an uncomfortably long time, and you shift uneasily in your seat. "Long story."

"Oh. Um. I kind of need this cab, then, is it all right if -"

"Can I come with you?" the words are out of your mouth before you can help it, and you're starting to think that being with this guy might not be such a good idea when you're this stressed out. Something about him makes the dumbest shit come out of you, and it makes you feel like you're 18 again in the worst way possible.

"I'm incredibly late, Michael, and really, you can't wear  _that_  to a premier!" he points uneasily to your garb, three days old and absolutely lived-in. A you decide that, yeah, you really need to get out of these. And a bath might not be so bad either.

"No one's gonna care if you're _slightly more late,_ " you roll your eyes, and kick one of your bags towards his feet. "And I have more clothes, moron."

"Michael, this is a _really_ important thing -"

"You’re wearing somebody else’s pants and you've got a cufflink missing."

"Driver, here is your money, we will be on our way."

Dude acts fast when given an incentive.

He grabs your hand, and drags you down three blocks to what you can only assume is a palace. The place isn’t huge, not by a long shot, but god, is it intricate. They got statues, fountains, fucking _gargoyles,_ the whole shebang. This is Gavin’s hotel, and it makes yours look like trash. He's got a regular fucking room, and the entire thing is twice as big as yours and Ray’s apartment back in Thailand. Probably better supplied, too, come to think of it. You sure as hell do not have a chandelier in your flat. Cause, really, do you need one? Nope. Are you gonna get one anyway cause it looks cool as fuck? Definitely.

You turn towards Gavin, starting him off easy, "Question: a) who the fuck is your friend and b) are they willing to adopt me into their family?"

Gavin laughs, ducking into his bedroom, and looking for a pair of pants that actually belonged to him. "The company we work for paid for it, you donut."

"Oh, so you're a _part_ of this!"

His head pokes out of the doorway, and he frowns at you. "Michael, please."

"Gavin, _please_ ," you smile widely, taking rapid steps forward and draping your arms over his shoulders. He slouches uncomfortably, pulling you off of him, and carrying on with his search. "Please, please, please, bring me into this magical company and please, please, pretty please, let me sleep in hotel rooms just like this. Sweep me off my feet, Gavvy boy, and drive me around in a limousine!"

"Michael you're being incredibly difficult , and this is the first time I've seen you in - what - 2 years?" A strange looks comes upon his face, and he shuffles around so he can get a better look at you. "Michael Jones... did you miss me?"

"What?” you reel back, “Fuck no, I barely would've remembered you if you hadn't slammed into me like you did."

"Youre a stinking liar," he tuts, shucking his pants off, and slipping into the new ones. "Its OK. I missed you, too."

"Oh, get over yourself."

“And after this, you’ll miss me as well.” he finishes buttoning up, setting his hands on his hips.

“You are so full of it.”

He's grinning when he surges forward and pushes you onto the bed. Crawling on top of you as you laugh helplessly.

“Admit it,” he grins. “You’ll miss me. You’ll be stuck in the back of Engineering 101 daydreaming about my knob scars and skinny jeans.”

“Over my dead body.”

You don't expect him to take it to heart. But he does. He has pulls back, a frown on his face, and those damned eyebrows furrowed once again. “Why do you keep pretending you hate me?”

“Because I do.” Duh.

“We've been bumping into each other for 2 years now, Michael, I don't think you do.” He sits back on his heels, still settled comfortably on your thighs.

“And you think you get to have a say in what I feel?”

“Not that. It’s just - stop pretending. Even if you think its funny.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't hate you.” He goes quiet now, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “Don't tell me you don't look for me every time you visit a foreign country. Because I do.”

You blink at him, an apology balanced on the tip of your tongue, "Well, I haven't -"

His eyes lock onto yours, head shooting up so quick it must've hurt.

"I mean - I haven't been traveling,” you clarify, coughing. “I stopped."

"Because of college?"

"No," you grumble. "It just - wasn't for me." You shift a little bit, and he takes it as a sign to roll off, sitting beside you with his legs crossed.

"But you were so happy."

You've heard this said so many times. From your parents. from Joel. Hell, even Ray says it sometimes.

Yeah, yeah, you've lost a bit of weight. Yes, your hair fell out so much you had to chop it all off. And yes, maybe you don't sleep as much as you should cause you get restless, but why the fuck does everyone think they can just butt into your life, pretending they're concerned. Why the fuck does someone you've seen 3 or 4 times in the past 2 years think he can just waltz in and feign concern when he obviously has so much more going on for him then worrying about a scrawny 21 year old from New Jersey.

"Why the fuck do you think that matters?" you end up yelling. "Why the fuck do you think you got a say in what I'm feeling, Gavin Free. I've known you for what? 24 hours combined? Less? Why don't you do yourself a goddamn favor and stop acting like you fucking know me."

For a moment, you think he's gonna fight back. That he's gonna get back on top of you and tell you to fuck off. He gets fighty when he's pissed, and you shouldn't know that, but you do.

But he's quiet this time. Distant look in his eyes, and you almost tell him sorry.

_I'm not - used to you._

He sits there and he sulks, and just as soon as you open your mouth, he gets up and marches out the doorway.

You follow him out to the living room where he’s rattling at the doorknob, muttering something about it getting jammed. (For the record, it isn’t. Fancy place like this don’t get jammed door knobs.)

“Gavin, quit it.”

He lets go of the doorknob. Body slightly hunched over, and breathing heavy. You know he's gonna run his mouth if you let him. Call you a bunch of nonsense names with no real heat behind them.

You wanna tell him sorry, but the words don't come out.

The phone starts to ring, and he jumps, keeping his eyes trained on the door. He doesn't answer. Just lets the stupid thing ring and ring until it goes into voicemail.

“Hey, B, I’m assuming you’re still back in the hotel. I told you to go get your things ready the night before, but - er - nevermind. You don’t have to come anymore. Everyone’s already inside the cinema. I’ll still get you Jude Law’s signature though, but I’ll make him spell your name all weird. All right. Um. That’s pretty much it. See you when I get back.”

“Gavin.”

His hand's clenched tight in a fist, muscles twitching in his forearm, and knuckles going white.

“Dont leave. C'mon, it's your god damn hotel room," you say, watching his grip loosen. Shoulders straightening out. "If you're really that pissed at me, I'll go. I was already on my way to the airport anyway." You lift up one of your bags off the floor to show him, just in case he failed to notice.

"You're going back?" he whips around quickly. Anger quickly turning into disappointment. "Back where? New Jersey?"

"Haven't been to Jersey in forever," you mutter. "Fuck me if I'll tell you where I decided to move."

It takes a few seconds, but he sighs and makes his way back towards you. He doesn't say a word, taking your bags from you, and walking them back into his room. Dropping them onto the bed all casual.

"You're not allowed to leave," he says.

"Bullshit," you spit out.

Every time you’ve let him into your hotel room, he’s ditched you. No note. No nothing. He makes Ray look like the King of polite, and he’s telling you you’re not allowed to leave?

“Bullshit,” you say again. For good measure.

“Or at least - don’t go without giving me your sodding e-mail, or whatever,” he says. “D’you know how difficult it is looking for you on Facebook?”

“That’s the god damn point,” you tell him. “Besides, you don’t wanna keep in contact with me. If you’re lucky, this is gonna be the absolute last time you set eyes on my dumb mug.”

He gives you an irritated look, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “Now, don’t you go on telling me how I’m supposed to feel, Michael Jones.”

He keeps his tone light but you can see where he's getting at.

Your heart's about to rip a hole out your chest, and you're pretty sure your face's gone white from the emotional roller coaster you've just been forced to go through, but you can't help the slight tilt in the corner of your mouth. And pretty soon, Gavin's grinning back as well. But you're still not giving him the damn e-mail.

If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re just chicken shit.

He knows you at your best and at your worst, whether you’re humouring him with his fake gay shit or yelling him down for being a dumbass. He’s never seen you in the spaces in between. He doesn’t see you quiet, and thinking too much. He doesn’t see you hollow and unfeeling. “You used to be so happy” and everyone says it like they _know._

Somewhere between then and now, you’ve dulled down, and Gavin’s the only person who hasn’t seen that.

You don’t want this guy thinking the world of you, just to end up finding out you work a 9 to 5 in Asia. You don’t want him walking red carpet after red carpet, smile bright enough to light up the fucking town, knowing full well you’ve been caught at a dead end; no college willing to pick up your sorry ass, and no career waiting for you at the end of a yellow brick road.

“Tell you what,” he says suddenly, “I’m gonna dare you to do something, and if you lose, you have to give me your e-mail. And it has to be legitimate, Michael, I’ll be checking.”

“And what if I win?”

He’s smirking when he says, “You get one wish.”

“No limitations?”

“None.”

“You’ll regret this, you know?”

“I’m extremely confident.”

He’s giggling when he pushes himself off the mattress. Tells you to stay put, and close your eyes before he comes in. And cause this is a bet, you don’t question him. Just do as the man says. You hear him crashing around the other room - Dan’s room, you’re assuming - before he comes back, sounding like a squeaky toy on acid.

“Open ‘em!”

Okay.

“So…?”

All right.

“Michael! React, please!”

“....am I supposed to… like, wear that?” you eye the suit uneasily. It’s a bit long on the arms, but you could probably pull it off.

“Yes!” he chirps. “The premier might be over soon, but there’s still the afterparty, and you, Michael Jones, will be my plus one.”

“This is your idea of a bet?” you scoff. Date night, okay. You can do that easy. Where’s the god damn challenge in that?

“It’s an international film festival. People like Steven Spielberg and Martin Scorsese will be there,” he brings the suit over to the bed, laying it down neat, and raises an eyebrow. “I’m betting you you’re not gonna last 30 minutes in that place without getting drunk. All the pressure’s gonna make you crumble, Michael Jones.”

Getting up, you take the suit over your arm, and march on over to the bathroom. “Prepare to eat your words, Gavin Free. It’ll take more than Spielberg to break me.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback would be amazing


	6. Italy II

You grip your drink a bit tighter (Orange Juice. Courtesy of Gavin. Obviously) and look around the room. There’s the man in question. Stealing a glance at you while, y’know, just talking to Jude Law. Jude fucking Law. With the gorgeous blue eyes and million dollar suit. Oh, no, wait, Robert Downey Jr’s just joined their little tête-à-tête. How dandy. How fucking lovely.

No. Seriously. You’ve been standing in this one corner for 10 minutes, butthole clenched so tight you’re probably not gonna be able to shit for weeks. This is insane. This bet is insane. _Gavin Free_ with his a-lister buddies and European film festivals _is fucking insane._

He waves goodbye to the two actors and walks back to you.

“Here,” he says, handing you a glass of champagne. “Bob said he didn’t want it so…”

“Bob?” you squawk. “Bob - as in - ‘Robert Downey Jr’ Bob -”

“His mouth touched the glass,” he says slowly. “D’you want it or not?”

You look at the pillar opposite you trying to channel its energy. You are marble. You are stone. You will not crumble, Michael Jones, you are so much fucking stronger than this. “Fuck your champagne.” Good. That's good. Cool and casual.

He shrugs. Chucks its contents into a plastic plant, and puts the glass on the table behind you. “All right.”

God, you could probably sell that glass for a hundred grand on ebay. Maybe more. Would he notice if you just… went on and grabbed it?

“You know…” he says quietly. And your head snaps up to attention. “We’ve got 20 minutes left before I can officially declare you a loser. I’d kind of want to celebrate my future victory some place less… stressful.”

“I thought the stress was the point, Gavin,” you grit out. “ _Ooh, let’s bring li’l Mikey to a big posh party and watch him wet his pants while I take his personal information. What fun!”_

“You make me sound like an arsehole.”

“Well, maybe you fucking are,” you tell him, stubbornly avoiding his eye. Oh fuck. Is that - Martin Scorsese is coming _right towards you_. What the fuck. What the fuck. “So… where did you wanna take me?”

His eyes light up so quick. He grabs you by the elbow, and walks you across the room. “The balcony. You’ve never seen Italy like this, I promise.”

“I’ve never really _seen_ Italy, but I’ll take it,” you grin. There’s a huge archway leading outside, and it’s dark enough that you don’t recognise the guests there. There’s a ton of fairy lights hanging across the railing, and over that, you can see the city, with its yellow lights and bustling energy.

“This is… nice,” you breathe out. “Have you been here before?”

He leans his arms against the railing beside you, “Once. With my dad. He wanted to take me somewhere that would… feel like home. So one summer, when I was still in High School, he bought us two plane tickets, and drove me all over Italy. It was nice.”

You swivel your orange juice around, and take a cautious sip. You can feel Gavin staring at you, but you don’t mention it. He’s probably just thinking about his dad or something. Or maybe you’ve got a spot on your chin you forgot to shave - _fuck_ \- you didn’t shave at all, did you? Jude Law’s seen you with peach fuzz. Your world is over.

“How’re you liking the party?”

“Not at all,” you blurt out. “Couldn’t think of a better first date idea, Free?”

“This is hardly…” he trails off, playing with the hem of his shirt. “It’s not a date, is it?” He laughs nervously, and there’s something behind it you’re not quite sure of. Like - is he worried or something? Is he homophobic? He can't be. He does all that fake gay shit with you all the time - oh my god, he’s homophobic -

“I’m bisexual.”

“What?” he sputters, choking on his own spit. 

“I mean - you’re worried if I’m seeing this as a date?” you lean forward, rubbing his back aggressively. It takes a while, but he straightens back up. “Are you, uh - do you, uh -”

“I like men,” he blurts out, and his face reddens completely.

"Oh." Good. Great. This is going swell.

“So…”

“So, that’s that,” you huff, finishing of your orange juice, and plopping it down an empty table. “You like boys. I’m glad we’re having this talk. I feel so much closer already. Look at all this intimacy we’re having!” you laugh nervously, and try to reach for the orange juice again, but you realise you’ve finished the damn thing, and oh - there’s that waiter taking it off that table. Like waiters do.

“Michael -” he looks around, and grabs your hand. “Why don’t we take this back inside?”

“What? So we can come out to Robert Downey Jr and maybe invite him over for a threesome?” _Seriously?_ You guys just walked out of that hellhole! “Gavin, I’d really prefer we stay out here. Y’know. Where I can’t recognise anyone?”

“Look,” he says, “Taking you here was an awful idea to begin with, and I already feel terrible, _so if we could just go back inside._ ”

“What’s so special about inside! It’s way cooler out here. Are you seeing the city right now? Holy shit!”

“Michael -”

“Gav, please don’t make me go back inside. I know I agreed to play your little game, but even alcohol won’t save me now -”

His hand settles on the back of your neck and -

Wait.

What’s going on.

Is he - ?

_No._

He _isn’t -_

God damn it, Michael Jones. If someone’s mouth is on yours, then, _yeah, they’re probably fucking kissing you._ This is literally what is happening, What are you doing questioning it.

He pulls back, and ducks his head.

“I really need a drink,” he murmurs. “I need, like, ten, or a hundred.”

You stare at him.

“If you have one, I won’t mind. We can pretend it was orange juice.”

Your mouth opens slightly, and you’re aware there’s a bit of spit still covering your lower lip. His eyes dart to it momentarily before he’s playing the staring game with his shoes again.

“Um. Michael?”

His face has gone red, and he can't stop blinking. Fuck.

“Look. I’m sorry about kissing you, I just thought -”

“You thought what?”

“I thought it’d - calm you down - or something -” he stutters. “Like in the ...movies,” he finishes weakly. “Though I suppose it’s a bit silly now, considering…” considering we’re in a mansion filled with celebrities. Yeah. Silly.

“Are you…?”

“Pissing myself? Yeah. A little bit.”

“No, I mean,” you shake your head, and grab his shoulder. You wanna make sure you're understanding exactly what's going on here. “Do you… have a crush on me or something?”

“No!” he says. Way too quick. “That’s ridiculous! I mean - like you said - we haven’t known each other for too long -”

Oh my god. He fucking does. His face has gone all red again, and he keeps eyeing that archway like it’s the pearly gates. “Gavin -”

“Just forget about the damn kiss, all right!” he yells. “I just want a damn drink - or to go home -”

You don’t know how to put this. You haven’t exactly… been on romantic terms with anyone since… fuck… sophomore year of high school? It’s not like you’ve been lacking in the sex department either. There’ve been a couple of people here and there. Not often, but… it’s not like you’re looking for it, right? Most of the time, it just happens. Brush against each other a little too much, and suddenly, whoops. Clothes off. Penis in vag. How did that happen? Haha. Wow, look at the time!

Right now though… _god,_ you know this guy! You know him! There’s a pretty good chance you’re gonna see him again, and… he probably likes you? Probably has for a pretty long time? You’re not ready for that kind of thing. Even if you _did_ like him back, you still probably wouldn’t be ready. This is Gavin you’re talking about! British prick in Vietnam who literally got kicked out of a tourist spot. British prick in Cambodia who threw a fit after a stupid joke in the bathroom. British prick who dragged you to a film festival’s after party and kissed you in front of a postcard view of Milan.

“I’m… really sorry, man.” Really? Is that all you have to say for yourself?

“Yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck, and looks back at the archway. “Well…”

“Look,” you tell him, “We’ll get you your drink. We’ll tell that waiter over there to leave the bottle of wine at our table -” you take the chair right next to you, sliding your ass right into it, and pretending to have a meaningful conversation with your significant other. There's a good chance he's forgotten about the bet. There's a good chance you are totally off the hook, “- and then I’ll hide it under the table, and we’ll do it again til we have at _least_ 3\. Then you take me down to a park so we can finish those babies, and I’ll take you back to your hotel. Like a gentleman. That sound all right to you?”

“I dont -”

“Oh, come on!” you groan. “I’ll make it worth your time.” 

The corner of his mouth lifts up slightly, and he gives you a half-assed shrug.

“Okay?” you grin, pulling him into the chair across you. Quietly, you wonder how long acquiring 3 bottles of wine would take. 5 minutes each? If you're careful? Okay... so for 20 minutes you could get 4 bottles of wine,  _and_  you win the bet! Smart thinking, Jones. College really doesn't know what they're missing, what with all the brains you've got. 

“Yeah. All right.” A waiter appears around the corner and the both of you instantly straighten up. Hand in the air, with your index finger pointing to the bottle of liquor he's got on his tray.You got this.

It takes six hours. Six fucking hours to get drunk enough that you’ve somehow lost your glasses, a shoe, and your neck tie. You don’t know how many bottles you’ve been through at this point, but Gavin assures you they are simultaneously very expensive and very very free, so you guess it’s all right. He’s lying in the grass, shirt off - fuck he’s hairy - and big toe poking out of a hole in his sock.

“I’m having fun with you,” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“I wish we knew each other in real life.”

“We do know each other in real life,” you gurgle, bringing the umpteenth bottle of chardonnay to your lips.

“No, I mean,” he grunts, pushing himself up on his elbow. “I want to see you everyday, and play dumb video games with you, and kiss you, and kiss you, and kiss you…”

Suddenly, you get the brightest idea. You are hit with such an impressive moment of inspiration that you fall back on your heels, and tip backwards into the grass. “I have the greatest idea,” you whisper to the moon.

“What is it?” Gavin whispers back, crawling up beside you.

“You can kiss me now.”

He shakes his head, taking a mouthful of wine, and frowning, “You didn’t like me kissing you.”

“No, no,” you laugh. God, he's a moron! “I didn’t like you having feelings for me. Said nothing about kissing. You can kiss me all you want now. For all the days you won’t see me.”

“And you won’t be mad in the morning?”

“Oh, I’ll be _pissed_ ,” you say, raising your eyebrows at him. “I’ll be so hungover, and so cranky you got me out of that party before Jude Law shook my hand. But I won’t be pissed about the kiss.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

He puts a hand over your shoulder so he’s leaning over you, and slowly lowers his mouth onto yours. He tastes like expensive wine, and it’s good. Hands running themselves through your hair, and a warm chest pressing against yours. He trails his mouth over to the corner of your lips, to your jaw, and right under your ear - “Fucking stop, that tickles!” - you can feel him smile against your neck, and he shifts his position so he’s sitting on your stomach. Moves his hands to your sides, and - “Fuck! Gavin! _Please!_ ” - you grab his wrists, and pin them to your chest that way he can’t torture you any further.

He’s sitting up again. Grinning at you through half-lidded eyes. From underneath him, you squirm, and tug on his hands. “Thought you were gonna kiss me?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not doing too much of that.”

“We have all night.”

You bring his hands up to your mouth, and laugh. “You’re really bad with time,” you whisper, just as the sun starts to rise behind him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. College just started and I'm floored by the workload. I'll keep workin on it, though. Don't you worry! Thanks for all the comments and kudos during the wait, by the way, I'm interested in seeing what you guys think.


	7. Europe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of time skips in this one. Let me know what you think of it, and whether I should avoid them in the future or not.

He’s giggling as you tiptoe towards the door, empty wine bottles clanging noisily against each other. A few people have walked out of their rooms, wondering what the hell all the noise is about. Some lady five doors down even tried to help you guys out, telling you it was all right if you wanted to take her room if you were lost, but Gavin told her pretty firmly that you guys were all right, and just a little woozy from a party.

The lady’s still eyeing you with concern (as well as _maybe_ three other people. You’re not really capable of counting right now), but Gavin tells you not to mind her, pushing his hand into his back pocket, and letting out a frustrated growl as he looks for his key card.

“Ah, here we go!” he slides the card through, and holds the door out for you, bowing so low, his the top of his head knocks into your hip. “Signor Jones.”

“Dipshit,” you laugh, grabbing him by the collar, and pushing him in through the door.

“I was being courteous!” he squawks.

“I know,” you grin, wrapping your arms around his neck.

You hear the bottles fall with a muffled thud, and suddenly, he’s pressed you against the door, slamming it shut in the process.

Bastard's been teasing you all night, so it's a definite relief when he finally presses his lips against yours again. Really, it's been too long since you last kissed. Doesn't he get that?

Gavin swipes his tongue across your lower lip, and you fall apart. Breath shaking, hands moving to clutch the back of his shirt a little bit tighter, and you find yourself thinking how different this is from your other one night stands. Gavin doesn't feel like muffled moans in a cheap motel room. He doesn't feel like rushed handjobs in an airport toilet, or a quick fuck in the dark. 

“Let’s get these off you,” he murmurs, stubble brushing against your neck, teeth nipping at the cloth on your shoulder. When you don’t reply, he tugs a little harshly on your hair, and you nod helplessly.

Definitely not a handjob in a bathroom stall, then.

 

 

 

"B, you home?"

...

"Told you not to leave your fucking shoes in the hall...um...?"

...

"Oh my god. Oh my god. Forget I was _ever_  here! I'll come by in the morning! No, no, no need to get up, just - _Jesus_ \- stay under the fucking blankets for Christ's sake!"

 

 

 

Gavin presses a small kiss to a cluster of freckles on your shoulder, falling over to the side, and face set in the widest shit-eating grin you've ever seen. “Good?”

“Fuck yeah,” you laugh, crawling on top of his chest. “Why didn’t we do that sooner?”

“Because…” he starts, his expression turning frustrated. He stays like this for a moment before shrugging, and reaching for a bottle of wine, frowning when he realises it’s empty. “I don’t remember, really.”

“Well, we should do it more often,” you grin, eyes wandering around the room til they land on the desk, trailing further towards… there! A pen! You reach towards it, and squeeze the cap between your teeth. You grab Gavin’s thigh, and pull it towards you. “Come here.”

“What’re you doing?” he giggles, as you start scribbling on the sensitive skin there.

“Writing my address down, idiot,” you mumble, trying to concentrate on the letters. God, you’re too drunk for this. “In case you, like, wanna pop by or something.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” you grin, finishing up, and looking at him - _oh._ He looks upset, fingers curling around the bed sheets, and pulling them over himself, leaving the skin of his thigh bare. “Come on, you’ve been whining about my e-mail address all night, and here I am actually giving you my address. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t - you don’t need to -” he stammers, then gently takes the pen away from you. He reaches out, fingers tugging gently at your hair. “You don’t need to do that, Michael.”

“Why not?” you frown, feeling a bit insulted. Doesn't he _want_ to be around you? Don't you matter at all to him? “I _want_ you to come over.”

“You say that now."

“Please,” you sigh, running your fingers up his leg and over the bed sheet. “Can we not start this again?”

“It’s kind of difficult not to considering -”

“Considering what?” you demand. 

“Considering you don’t feel the same way about me the way I feel about you.”

Oh.

“You see?”

You bite your lip, pushing yourself up in a sitting position beside him. He's got a point, but... “It could change.”

“No, it won’t,” he says firmly, putting the pen back on the table.

“It could!” you insist, pushing at him, “I could love you back!”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly, asshole. I really could!”

"It’s ruining my night," he says. "Can we not do this anymore?"

“Gavin…” You clutch the side of his face, fighting the urge to strangle him. He's being so damn difficult. “Come on, don’t be a dick about this.” You press your lips to his brow, then his nose, the corner of his mouth, his jaw, “Come on, boy.”

 

 

 

"What's so special about Thailand?"

"What, like, you've never been?"

"No. Never."

"You should go. The beaches are so fucking gorgeous, and - we've really spruced up the shop. Everything's fantastic."

"You don't look convinced."

"Oh my god. Can you stop psychoanalyzing me all the damn time, Dr Free?"

"If you stop lying, I might."

"No, really. Ray's shop is awesome. You should go. I'm not lying."

...

"I'd really like it if you went. It'd - fuck - it'd probably make my day or something."

"All right."

"What. ' _All right'_ all right?"

"Yeah, all right. I'll go."

"Fuck yes!"

 

 

 

You groan loudly, reaching for the other side of the bed, and it’s - empty.

Fuck, it’s not even warm or anything.

Like, what did you expect?

Of fucking course he’d be gone in the morning. Of course he would have left without a fucking note. Of course he’d leave you naked and lying in sheets soaked with your own goddamn jizz while you go and question your entire fucking existence -

“Michael?”

Wait. _What._

"You up yet?”

Oh my god.

“Dan’s brought in some room service,” Gavin calls out. You vaguely remember some dark haired fuck walking in on the both of you, and screaming as he stumbled back out.  “They’ve got eggs benedict, though I’m not quite sure you’ll fancy it too much.”

_Oh my god._

You stumble out of bed so fast your knee slams into the floor, and the sheets come flying down on top of you. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Your head hurts. Your ass hurts. Your god damn pubes are stuck together, and you desperately need a shower. _How many fucking times did you do it last night?_

“...Michael?”

“Fucking coming!” you yell out, getting up, and looking for your boxers. Ah. Okay. There they are. Bedside table lamp. Ripped slightly, and a used condom on top of it. Good. Lovely. You walk on over to it, and flick the condom off. At least your underwear’s still in one piece. Your shirt and pants are easier to find, considering you folded them up on a chair before you left. The suit, though... you two really got around last night, didn’t you?

There’s a mirror on the way to the door, but there’s no point in looking, really. You're a fucking mess, and you know it. You're wearing week old clothes, and you picked up one of Gavin's shoes to replace the one you lost in the goddamn park. It's way too tight, but it's better than nothing, so you keep it on. Bastard's not gonna mind, is he? 

You poke your head outside the door, and see the back of Gavin’s head as he eats his breakfast. He’s perched on a stool, his head rocking side to side humming some dumbass tune, and - fuck - he’s only got his boxers on.

“Oh,” he turns around, and his eyes land on you, face falling. “You’re dressed already?”

“Um. Yeah,” you stammer, “Look, I…”

“I suppose… you’d want help with your bags?” He hunches his shoulders a bit, face expressionless as he gets up from his seat.

“No, I can handle it myself. Uh, thanks.” Fuck. You forgot about those. How did you think you were gonna leave Italy, dipshit? Embarrassed, you shuffle back into his bedroom, and pick up your backpack off the floor. patting it down to make sure you haven’t dropped anything.

You walk back outside, and see him standing in the hallway. Poker face still on tight.

“I’m… really sorry, Gav,” you run a hand through your hair, and reach your hand out to… what? Shake his hand? Nothing you can do right now can fix this.

He loves you. You had sex with him. And you fuck everything up by leaving, You’re a total dreamboat, Michael Jones. Anyone would be lucky to have you.

“It really would be pathetic of me to expect you to…” he shrugs slightly, and walks back to his stool. “Well. See you in a few, Michael Jones from New Jersey.”

You wave at him weakly, putting your hand on the doorknob. “See you in a few, Gavin Free from Oxfordshire.”

 

 

 

It’s in the airport that you realise how fucking dumb you are.

Seriously. What are you doing catching a flight you don’t need to catch to avoid eyeing up your best friend? _Yes_ , best friend. You don’t let someone that far up your ass, and keep stubbornly calling them ‘some stranger I keep seeing when I travel’. This is really no time for you to keep up the chicken shit act.

What if you never see him again?

What if this is _literally the last time_ you ever see him?

With a deep exhale, you tell the nice lady at the counter you won’t be taking the flight after all, and rush to the taxi stop. There’s a ton of people there, but when you’re desperate enough, things could very well just work out for you (just with a lot of pushing, and yelling involved). It’s a good thing you remember the name of the hotel, cause you’d never be able to guide the driver through these streets.

Come to think of it, it’s totally a miracle you two found your way back that morning.

Silently, you find yourself wondering if all that really just happened in the last 24 hours. Your life’s been at such a constant level of okay, and one evening with Gavin’s just totally messed it all up. _Okay_ turned into _What the shit_ turned into _I fucked up_ and now look at where you are: back of a cab, practically shitting yourself about meeting with the only man in the world who knows where your prostate is.

The taxi stops right outside the hotel entrance, and you count your money carefully before handing it to him and rushing out. You run up to reception, and ask them to phone up Gavin Free’s room.

“Signor Free?” the man frowns. “Why, he left just moments ago.”

“He left?” you repeat in disbelief. You were gone for half an hour! “To go where?”

“I’m afraid that is confidential.”

“You don’t understand -” you stammer, quickly trying to make up a story, “He’s my fiancé. He said I could go ahead to the airport, but he had my passport, and - and we had a fight the other night, so I’m expecting -”

The receptionist sighs, and looks over his shoulder at a corkboard covered with leaflets. “He said something about a film festival, but they’re all over the place these days, I couldn’t tell you which one.”

He’s right. There’s about 7 or more ads for film festivals all over Europe on that damn corkboard, and you can bet your ass Gavin’s gonna be in one of them (you’re hoping all seven, but you’re not that lucky).

“Thank you so much, man, you don’t even know how grateful I am.”

He shrugs modestly, and leans forward, sliding a map towards you. “There’s a bus stop just 10 minutes from here. I’d wear a jacket if I were you.”

“Why? Is it cold?” you ask, bemused.

He pats the side of his neck, and you frown. What the fuck is he going on about?

Oh.

_Oh damn._

Your face instantly heats up, and you hitch your backpack straps further up your shoulders. You feel phantom lips trailing up the side of your neck, and instinctively cover your throat with both hands. Fuck.

You rush to the bathroom to check, and - wow. Okay. Like, you knew Gavin liked paying attention to your neck, but you didn’t think - well - okay. You dump your bag onto the floor, looking for a shirt with a high collar, a turtleneck, fucking something, and change before coming back out. You ask the receptionist for brochures for all the film festivals going on for the season, and he gives them to you without any trouble.

You’re walking out towards the street, ready to look for a cab, when you shove your hand down your front pockets and realise that - _fuck_ \- you totally lost your phone.

There’s a good chance you lost it in the park last night. Hell, you probably lost it at the god damn _party_. You let out a frustrated growl before walking back up to the receptionist, asking if you could use the hotel phone to call up your phone. The thing rings for  _forever_ , and you give it up as a bad job before the dial tone goes off. So much for Plan A.

You roll your eyes at the ceiling before going on to call up your boss to tell him your trip back’s gonna be a little delayed.

And, yeah, sure, the fucking thing goes straight to voicemail. You mean, it’s not like you wanted this to go smoothly or anything. It’s not like you wanted to bump into Gavin fucking Free so you could lose him all over again, and start a global fucking scavenger hunt for his skinny ass.

You finish the message, handing the phone back to the receptionist, and walk out of the hotel.

This is gonna be a fucking nightmare.

 

 

 

Gavin does not see you in Switzerland.

He does not see you in Belgium.

He does not see you in Germany.

By the time you reach Munich, you are so tired, and so angry you practically hear angels singing when you lean over tonight’s one night stand for the metal deathtrap she calls a laptop, and see that there’s one new message from Ray. Bastard hasn’t answered his phone the first hundred times you called (you’re practically an expert in figuring out European phone booths by now), and you were just about to tear your hair out, panicking about getting enough money for a plane ticket back.

Okay, so maybe you spent all your money on bus tickets, and train tickets, and whatever-the-fuck tickets trying to look for one Gavin Free. _Maybe_ you ended up crashing parties, and getting kicked out ( _maybe_ more than once, _maybe_ a little closer to three or four times). It’s not really your fault, though. You met people along the way, and they were all “yeah go crash that fucking party!!” and you were all “hell fucking yeah I’ll go crash that fucking party!!” although, to be frank, you were 5 shots of vodka into the conversation, and couldn’t, for the life of you, think of a reason why that would be a bad idea.

So, yeah, you do spend a little more than a month in Europe. Plus, Ray’s sent you an e-mail three weeks back telling you if you weren’t planning on coming back any time soon, he’d just hire Kdin and Caleb, and ask Joel for a bit more help ' _...it’s not like I need someone to repair shit or whatever anyway. Asshole. xoxo’._

The latest e-mail tells you two more guys are coming in to work the next week, and he’d really appreciate it if you came back before then. There’s an e-mail after that informing you you’ve got just enough money for a plane ticket back, and you silently sigh in relief. You type a quick reply, telling him you’re headed to the airport in an hour, and get quietly out of bed. Tonight’s one night stand stirs noisily but doesn’t get up, and you try to tell yourself this hasn’t become an all-too familiar thing by now.


	8. Thailand II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I've been busy with college, but it's winter break now, and I got more time to write.

“So I told him, yeah, I’d let myself get plowed by a 10 inch dick in Madison Square Garden for 250 grand. No biggie, right?”  There’s a slight pause, and Ray stops tapping on the window of the cab to look at you. “That was supposed to be funny.”

“I would’ve laughed,” you tell him, “if that’s any consolation.”

“The thought of me getting plowed by a 10 inch dick _‘would have made you laugh’_ ,” he repeats. “Like, I’m not hearing that fucking chipmunk giggling right now. What the hell’s the matter?”

“You know what’s wrong,” you say, leaning your elbow on the edge of the window, and watching the motorcycles go past yours. Traffic’s hell - as always - and Ray thinks it’s enough of an opportunity to get you back talking again.

Well, too fucking bad.

“You spiraled into depression, and fucked every girl in Europe,” he says. “So what?”

“So what?” you grit. “ _So what?_ So maybe I don’t wanna laugh at every dumb fucking joke you make, okay. So maybe I don’t find the idea of you getting plowed by a ten inch - _by a ten inch fucking -_ ” you’re doing that dumb teeth gritting thing, like when parents are yelling at their kid at a hotel lobby, but not really yelling, and Ray raises his hands up in defence, and scoots a bit further away from you as he can. You’re sharing the back seat of a taxi cab, so it’s safe to say it probably didn't have as much of an impact as he would've liked.

“Okay, okay, I get it, you’re still pissed. _I get it._ ” For a short amount of time, he remains silent, picking at the hem of his shorts. Then - “Will you still be pissed if someone, like, got you some Jersey Mike’s?”

“Where the hell would you even -” then the thought dawns on you, and you shove him into the car door. “ _No._ ”

“What?”

“Just - _no -_ ”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“You didn’t fucking have to!” you shriek. Some time between Jersey and Thailand, you slipped Lindsay’s number out from the back of your unwashed jeans, and gave her a call. Gross, you know. Anyway, you didn’t really think it’d end up anywhere, seeing as it’s been months since you met on that plane, but you still wanted to give it a go. You were lonely, so, what the hell, right? Thing is, she picked up, remembered you after a few clumsy descriptions (“Curly hair, nerd tattoos, uh, brown hair? Okay, okay, it’s fucking ginger, fucking - don’t tell anyone I said that. Cause like. It’s fucking brown.”), and excitedly told you she had a flight to New York that same month.

She’s been more active about seeing you since your move to Thailand. This really has less to do with her wanting to spend time with you, (although, let’s be fair, you do have a damn good time whenever Lindsay’s around), and more to do with her ‘accidentally’ bringing one of the pilots in to Versus. Said something about looking for a coffee shop, and realizing the video game store was somewhere along the way, and going ‘why the hell not’.

To this day, you still insist it’s a total sham. There are no coffee shops around your area. Specifically none that would ever be listed in one of those dumb _Buzzfeed Top 10s_ or whatever. You call her out on it every chance you get, but Ray gets pissed. Says Haywood - that’s the dumbass pilot - can get you guys _customers._ Make Versus sound like a rad _international_ store instead of a garage-sized toaster oven in the middle of the Andaman Sea. You tell him it'd probably feel like less of a toaster oven if you got rid of the thousand fairy lights filling up the damn place, and he tells you to shut the fuck up because it's atmospheric and it draws the chicks in.

Anyway, Lindsay totally downplayed the whole pilot thing. Haywood practically owns the entire airline. Apparently his family’s been running the business almost as long as the oldest commercial one (“...uh… they were the Wright Brothers, if I recall” “you shut your whore mouth _right fucking now_ ”).

Long story short: Haywood's family is rich as dicks, and they didn’t have the motto “Still in the Air” for nothing.

Lindsay and Ryan have pretty much been doing routine flight patterns over here every few months, always bringing some cold, soggy-ass fast food from wherever the hell they came from. Sometimes they’d come alone. More often, they’d come together.

You get the idea they do it because Ray gives them discounts on anything they buy, but they insist they genuinely do like Versus. Like it’s some sort of second home or something. Anyway. Bullshit, right? It’s the fucking discounts.

For a second, you meet the cab driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, and you huff. “Look - dealing with you is already toeing the line. I really can’t with guests right now.”

“You won’t have to,” Ray says. “Ryan and Lindsay can go run back to their hotel first thing." Oh, yeah. That’s another thing. Other than wasting your time at Versus, the two assholes also camp out at yours and Ray’s apartment any chance they get. They’ve even got spare toothbrushes and towels and shit lying around. It’s ridiculous. “You won’t even have to see them. Here, look. I’ll text them now.”

“Not now that they’re already fucking here -” you hold out a hand to stop him. “Just - just tell them I don’t feel like talking, all right?”

Putting his phone back down, he nods, “Yeah. All right.”

The cab makes its way to your apartment in half an hour. Goddamn traffic is something you’ll never get used to.

Pulling your backpack out from the cab’s trunk, you hand the driver a few bills, and make the short walk up the stairs to the second floor of the building. Ray’s hand barely grazes the front of his pockets for his keys when the front door opens, and out comes Lindsay - boxers and all - giving you the tightest bear hug known to man.

“You dumb fucker!” she screams.

“Wow. Such a warm welcome,” you deadpan, glancing at Ray.

“Yeah, uh, he’s not really into talk right now,” Ray shrugs, pushing his way past you into the living room. “Personal shit ‘n all, you know?”

“Is it that Gavin kid you were talking about?” Ryan voice comes from behind the TV. He straightens up with a few cables in his hand, and scratches his head.

You glare at Ray, and he holds his hands up again before ducking into the living room to help Ryan out with whatever the hell he’s working on. Lindsay pays you no mind, already getting the message, and following after the boys. Walking up to your room, you drop your bag on the floor, and sleep til they’re all knocking on your door, calling on you for dinner.

To be honest, you're fucking glad to be back home. Yeah, you're just as sad and lonely and whatever as you were back in Europe, but the bed's familiar and the room's familiar, and there are people in the living room laughing, and you know for fact you can trust them with anything. Thailand is constant, and life here is predictable, but it's comfort and it's home, and for some reason that's important right now.

You tell them you gotta shower first, and catch up when they’re halfway through dessert.

"I’m thinking of maybe going to college,” Lindsay says over her sticky rice. Sometime before you woke up, they all decided to get some local takeaway instead of trying to salvage the soggy mess that was Jersey Mike’s. Ray hands you a plate of Pad Thai, and you go through it pretty quick. Thai food’s pretty quick to miss when you’re barely affording instant noodles up in a place like Munich.

“I thought you already went to college,” you frown.

“Fucker,” she says, kicking you under the desk. “How old do you think I am?”

You give her a confused look, wincing when she aims a second kick at you.

“I signed up for the airline right out of high school just for kicks,” she explains. “Never gave it a second thought, really. But now I saved up enough money for _‘higher education’,_ so… why not? Like, I always wanted to go into theatre… or, like, something with voice acting, you know?”

“How’d this come up anyway?” you ask. Most of the time, Lindsay never shuts up about traveling or her hometown. This is the first time she's ever mentioned anything about goals or hobbies outside of work.

“Me and the boys here had a good long talk while you were away,” she says. “Y’know, about _grown-up things_. What the fuck were you doing away for so long, anyway?”

“I was…” you scratch your head and frown. You’re expecting Ray to just blurt it out, but he doesn’t. Awkwardly reaches across you for the pitcher, and fills his own glass up with coke. “Just a dumb vacation. Just - forget about it. What were you guys talking about?”

“Ugh,” Lindsay groans. “Joel was over for a bit talking about how these guys he just hired were straight out of high school, and then Ryan got pissed off talking about how Joel should stop encouraging kids to skip college, and it turned into this whole dumb thing with Ray walking out, and me going ‘haha, I kinda wanna go to college’ and now Ryan’s found me this cool as fuck college in Austin, and he’s already got me the applications and everything. Y’know,” she finishes. “The usual.”

“What college is this?” you find yourself asking.

“University of Texas,” Lindsay grins. “Why? You jealous? You secretly wanna be a drama major?”

“Shut the fuck up,” you roll your eyes. “And yeah. Sorta.”

“Whoa, fuck how did this come up!” Ray, who’s been rocking back and forth on the back legs of his chair suddenly swings forward, landing his chair with a slam. “You’re my best fucking employee! You can’t leave!”

“I’m your only - wait, nevermind,” you frown. “And it’s not, like, official or anything. Just some dumb shit I was thinking over while I was up north.”

A silence passes over the group, and they look at each other uneasily. You get the feeling they’ve been talking about you a lot more than they’re letting on, and it kinda pisses you off. You’re an adult. You’re fucking 22. You can do anything you want. They don’t _get_ to have a say in your life, really. At the very least. They shouldn’t.

“We’re a little worried about that, actually,” Ryan says. His first contribution to the conversation.

“Um. Okay?” you say, trying to look insincere about it.

“Michael, you look like you haven’t slept in months,” Ryan continues. “Maybe… maybe you should try going back to your parents for a little while?”

“Wait. _What?_ ” you shriek, this is totally not the turn you were expecting. Maybe a little more something like ‘haha we’re worried you can’t afford college’ or maybe something more realistic like ‘you’re too dumb for college, you belong in retail haha’. Just - not this. “You been talking to Joel again? You been talking to _Jack?_ ”

This is fucking rock bottom. They fucking brought you in for an intervention, cause they think you’re at _rock bottom_ \- well, to be fucking fair, you are kind of loopy right now, but that’s not what’s important. What’s important is they think you can’t fucking _handle yourself._ They think you need to _go back to your fucking parents._

“No, no, not at all,” Ray jumps in. “We’re just really fucking worried, and we just - fuck, we don’t know how to deal with shit like this? And we were hoping your parents would.”

“Well, first of all: fuck you,” you say. “And second of all: there’s nothing to worry about. Nothing to get my goddamn _parents_ in a twist over, anyway. If you _really_ wanna get rid of me this bad, then, okay, yeah, I can go to college. Leave you traitors behind.”

“We don’t _want_ you to leave,” Linday says, finally, “It’s just - we want you to be happy, and you don’t look happy when you’re here or when you’re abroad! We don’t know what to do to help, okay?”

You slide down a bit in your seat, your breathing going heavy, and feeling the need to cry for some stupid goddamn reason. “If you were really worried you could’ve just asked. Like, e-mailed or something. Instead of ignoring me, and pretending - like, pretending I knew what I was doing and shit.”

“Thought you needed some space,” Ray says.

“Gave me too much of it,” you say.

“Well, damn, can you just tell us what happened in Europe?” Ryan finally asks. “When Ray was explaining, we thought you were on some gap year trash adventure. What were we supposed to think? And here you are, spouting off nonsense about college -”

_“Ryan -”_

“It’s true!” Ryan says, “He’s never mentioned college til now.” He faces away from Lindsay, and turns to you. “I’m not gonna ask again. What happened in Europe?”

There's a short silence where you're debating whether you should walk out on this or just tell them. But they're here. And they waited on you. _They worried._

It's the least you can do.

So you tell them about Gavin.

You tell them about Vietnam. And Cambodia. And Hong Kong.

You tell them about Italy.

And you sit there, and watch this weird sort of understanding cross their features. Like they know something you don’t. And you finish, and Ryan pats your cheek twice, and says, “Why couldn’t you just say you broke up with your boyfriend?”

Wait.

What?

“Um - he’s not my boyfriend?” you say quietly, not really understanding how he got to _that_ conclusion. Fucker’s been reading too many romance novels. “He’s like - my -”

“Fuckbuddy, okay,” Ray says. “No need to get into any more detail.”

“He’s not my goddamn -!”

“No, but -” Ryan starts again, looking confused, and frustrated, and a little bit like he wants to rip your head off with only his fingernails. “So you two, by some insane universal coincidence, run into each other every time you fly out. Eventually, you start screwing each other - _shut the fuck up, Michael_ \- you’re all ‘I don’t love you. I don’t love you’ and then he blows you for the hundredth time that night, and you end up going ‘aha! But I could!’”

He looks at you like something’s supposed to dawn on you, like he’s just given birth to the second Jesus or something, and wants you to go ‘Wow! Holy shit! What the fuck!’. Really, he gives you way too much credit for an angry 22 year old.

“Uh, so?”

“‘Uh, so?’” he repeats. “Uh, so, is that you fucking lead him on! Lindsay, tell him he lead him on. Ray. He totally lead him on.”

The two of them look at each other, and say in unison, “You lead him on.”

Fuckers.

Traitors.

You did not lead Gavin Free on.

There’s this thing, okay, called _honesty._ And you were honest! It’s not your goddamn fault, post-orgasmic you got all fucking lovey dovey and shit. It’s not your fault _drunk_ you got lovey and dovey and shit! Honestly. If it was anyone else, you probably would’ve said the same thing. _They_ would have totally understood that you weren’t really in the right state of mind to be saying shit like ‘I could love you haha’. Really. _Anyone_ else would’ve gotten that, so why _the fuck_ are Ray, Ryan, and Lindsay on your dick like this?

“You know what,” you growl out, “I’m through. Think what you want, cause I know for fact I didn’t lead the guy on. You don’t know him like I do. Actually, you don’t know him at _all,_ so shut the fuck up.”

Ryan gives you this weird look before shrugging, and going, “If you’re gonna be this stubborn about this, I’d rather not waste my time.”

“ _Finally,_ ” you sigh, shifting in your seat a bit, and just to make sure, you add “I don’t even like Gavin that way...he’s like... the human version of the word moist.”

“Why, cause he made you moist?” Ray and Lindsay look at each other, and you hear them high five under the table.

“You shut the fuck up,” you grit out. “We don’t talk about my sex life over dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always interested in hearing from you guys.


	9. Thailand III

“You know, if you’re serious about that college thing, I think I might have a little something for you.”

You and Ray are by the kitchen sink, finishing up the dishes. He’s got this concerned look in his eye, like he doesn’t wanna say whatever he’s gonna say, so you hit him with the soggy dish towel. It honestly pisses you off when he gets hesitant like this.

“Fucking spit it out,” you tell him.

“That company we visited in Barcelona? Roosterteeth, you remember them?” he says, finally, “They’re thinking of expanding into something to do with animation. They’ve been… they’ve been talking about it for a while actually.”

He scratches his head, and glances at the living room. Lindsay and Ryan are fast asleep, the background noise of Bioshock’s title screen filling the silence. They’re set to leave in a few hours, and you’ve stayed up all night watching each other play the stupid game.

“If you just need some place to go, I can call them up, you know? Like, as a small favour?” Ray’s stubbornly not looking at you as he says this. Keeps his eyes on the window in front of you. Grips the counter tight.

“You’re serious about this?” You say, your lips quirking up, and you biting your lip to keep from smiling so goddamn wide. You wind an arm around his shoulder, and he relaxes slightly, but he’s still avoiding eye contact and picking at his fingers.

“Wouldn’t joke about something like that,” he says. The first time he’s looked this serious about anything. He shrugs your hand off his shoulder, and looks up at you. “You’re my best friend, man. Thinking of you leaving me out here fucking sucks, but… I know you hate staying in the same place and all. And… if you don’t wanna be with your parents, then, why not do this instead?”

Throwing the dish cloth into the sink, you lunge at him, wrapping your arms back around him, and pushing your forehead into his shoulder.

“One thing, though,” he says, before the thank yous can come spilling out your mouth. “You gotta promise me one thing.”

“Anything, alright?”

“You gotta stick to this,” he tells you. “This is… dumb, but… you let everyone else push you around - and don’t even bother denying it, cause you were angry thinking about having to go back to your parents last night, but you would’ve convinced yourself it was the right thing if they pushed you enough, so - just - stick to this, okay? Stick to something you wanna do, and don’t let anyone else screw you over.”

“Promise.” you say quietly, before pushing him slightly over the sink, and ruffling his hair. “Absolutely. I promise,” you say again. And you’re grinning when he turns around, and continue, “But… seriously, I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I mean, it’s awkward right now, so I’ll probably e-mail you 10 pages ‘thank you thank you thank you’ with a fugly e-card or something,” you laugh, pulling out the dishcloth, and twisting the water out of it.

You kick him in the shins, and tell him to get out of the kitchen. “Go to bed. I’ll finish up.”

-

“You know, he’s handsome, your Gavin,”

“Huh?” You’re on the floor of the kitchen, working on doing the laundry when Lindsay walks in, and plops herself on top of the washing machine. She turns her phone around, showing you a photo of the man in question walking down a red carpet. It’s some press photo from an event, and you can’t help but recognize Dan on his right. They’re smiling. Waving at the crowd. They look happy.

“Don’t pull shit like this,” you murmur, going back to the laundry, trying to look for loose change in the pockets, and figuring out which are Lindsay’s and which are Ryan’s so they can stop leaving their clothes in your apartment. It’s not like you can fit anything else in this thing, anyway. “I didn’t look him up when I was 18. I’m not looking him up now,” you continue.

“Why not?” She frowns at her phone. Probably scrolling through more photos. “You scared it’s gonna wreck your karma?”

Shrugging, you grab the laundry net from under her feet, and stuff the clothes inside. “So what if I am?”

“ _What?_ ” Lindsay says quietly. “You seriously think, like, by some miracle you’re gonna stop bumping into this dude _just because you google his fucking name?_ ” She looks at you like you’re crazy, and, to be perfectly honest, she does have a point. “Asshole!”

“He’s -” you stop yourself before you say something dumb, like, ‘he’s special to me’ or ‘he doesn’t feel real’. Like you’re terrified of looking him up and finding a blank page. Terrified of realizing he could have so easily lied to you, and his name’s not Gavin, and he’s not from Oxfordshire, and he doesn’t have a cat. Hell, maybe he doesn’t even _like_ cats. Really, there’s no reason for him to even tell you the kind of shit he has, it’s -

“Michael?”

Lindsay’s slid down from the washing machine. She’s got one hand on yours, and she looks concerned. “Give him a call.”

“Lindsay -”

“For your own good,” she says, with way too much finality. Like it’s the decision of a lifetime, and not something she came up with 2.5 seconds ago.  “And if not, then - for the people that care about you at least, cause you’re fucking yourself over thinking about this dumb kid. So go on,” she sees you hesitate, and continues, “Anyway - I need to start packing up.”

She puts the phone in your hand, and walks out of the room. You hear Ryan telling her to hurry up, his voice getting higher as he asks _Ray_ to tell _Linds-ay_ to _hurr-y up_.  Ryan rushing around the house looking for Lindsay’s make-up kit. Her uniform (“YOU HAVEN’T FUCKING STEAMED IT YET?”). And, finally, Ryan whimpering on the living room floor.

Shaking your head, you look down just in time to see the call get accepted, and swallow a lump in your throat. You look back up at the door, and turn your phone off before Lindsay has a chance to notice. You carry on with the laundry.

Sometimes, you think, things are better left alone.

When she’s done packing, she makes her way back to you, ignoring Ryan’s protests of ‘hey we’re gonna be _real-ly real-ly_ late because of you’ and a more nervous ‘hurry up or I’m flying that plane without you’ so she can say goodbye all sappy and proper.

“How was the call?” she asks you.

You lift your left shoulder up and drop it.

“That bad?” she frowns, and walks on over to you. Gives you a hug, and a small kiss on the cheek. She whispers, “Hey. At least that’s over and done with, right? No more wondering? Like you could’ve done this way earlier, and saved everybody the trouble.”

“I guess,” you murmur into her shoulder. She smells like chamomile, and you gotta admit, you’re gonna miss that. Even the tiniest things, like her knocking on the glass of your store when she arrives, or tackling you whenever she wins a game, or walking around wearing Ryan’s clothes, and telling you the real Ryan was actually a robot created by Haywood industries, and the company actually had no legitimate heir.

You’ll miss everything.

“He’ll feel like shit,” she smiles, pulling away. “He’s gonna miss that baby face for ages, trust me - or at least - I will.”

“Aw,” you grin, “Is this you being sappy?”

“As sappy as I’m gonna let myself get, Jones,” she says.

Ryan appears by the doorway this time, already in his uniform, and dragging two huge suitcases with him. “Linds, plane’s gonna leave in an hour, and you know how traffic goes.”

“Fuck!” she hisses, and again for unnecessary emphasis. “Fuck! _Fuck!_ ”

She runs off to the bathroom to check her makeup, and to see everything’s sorted. No stray hairs or any shit like that. You don’t see her at all after that. Just a quick goodbye when she runs out the door, and a rushed promise to call every week.

Work’s slow that day. Maybe a dozen customers who already know what they want. Kids who don’t usually stick around. It gives you a lot of time to mope, and get back to where you were in Assassin’s Creed. Just finding ways to kill time and all.

When you see Ray later that day, he looks upset. You ask him about it, but he shrugs it off. Tells you he’s just being a pussy, and it’ll probably go away in a few days.

“Stop hovering over me - like - there’s always skype, so she’s not _gone_ ,” he tells you anyway. “But, fuck - yeah, I’m gonna be missing that girl a fuck ton.”

“Haywood’s still gonna come visit,” you remind him.

“Haywood’s something all right,” he tells you, before making up some bullshit excuse about taking up stock, and heading into the backroom.

-

When Matt and Jeremy come in to the store, Ray starts treating you different. Starts talking about Roosterteeth a bit more. He sounds really fucking excited about it, too. Setting you up with this job like he’s proud of himself.

He tells you they’ll send you some scripts as soon as they’re done fleshing it out. Some series called Red vs Blue they need a ton of help with. More actors. More animators. Ray says it’s just beginning, but Joel has a lot of faith in it, and, as a result, so does he.

“You’re not gonna wanna come back,” he tells you one night. He’s looking up flight details from Thailand to Barcelona. Trying to figure out a cheaper way of getting you there. It’s been 8 weeks since Lindsay and Ryan flew out. 6 weeks since Matt and Jeremy flew in and moved into the apartment underneath yours.

You can tell Ray doesn’t need you anymore. If Versus looked good before, it looks even better now. The two may not have gone to college, but they sure as hell have the experience of professional interior designers. They’ve really got an eye for it, and you can tell Ray’s proud as hell he got them at all.

“And I just wanna make sure everything goes to plan,” he says. “You’re gonna get those scripts, we’re gonna send them some videos, they’ll have to say yes, and it’s sayonara to your pale ass.”

“Really feeling the love here,” you tell him. “Hurts me thinking of you alone. Without me.”

“Just send me your nudes on Friday nights, and I’ll be good.”

“I better start charging, then.”

-

You wake up to a heavy lump falling on top of you.

That heavy lump, you realise as soon as you open your eyes and throw it off of you, is Ray Narvaez Jr. He starts throwing you little pictures of this guy in an orange armoured suit. He is screaming so loud the neighbours call the cops on you.

Later on, after some coffee, and maybe a shower, you realise he’s been yelling ‘You got the part! They want you to play Grif! You got the part!’, and you gotta admit, you’re pretty fucking chuffed about it .

In the middle of work, he’s still grinning and shit, and obsessively checking out airline websites all over again.

“Don’t poop yourself,” you grin, and he doesn’t even bother to look behind him when he flips you off. “Whatever, I’m hungry. You want McDonald’s again?”

“You really asking me?” he grunts.

“I’m taking that as a yes.”

“Fucking yeah you should.”

You go out to eat lunch with Matt and come back to him a complete turnaround. He looks confused, and slightly angry when he asks you, “Uh… do you know some chick named Katrina Belitski?”

“Who’s asking?” you drop the bag of fast food on his desk, walking around it to get a better look at his screen.

“Katrina Belitski’s asking, that’s who.”

“Uh… okay? What’s up with Katrina Belitski?”

“Says you two fucked last year -”

“Ah. What a scandal.”

“ - and she’s about to give birth to your kid.”

“Ah, sure,” you laugh. “Real fucking funny, Ray.”

You lean over him, and start unpacking his food for him, cause what else are you supposed to do with your fucking hands when someone tells you heavy shit like this?

“I’m not joking.” You look up, and it’s at this point you realise he looks paler than he usually does. He points to his laptop screen, and clicks on an attached file on one of the e-mails he’s got. On it is a picture of a brown haired girl - familiar. Very familiar - and her bulging belly.

“It might not even be mine,” you scoff, breaking into a cold sweat. You adjust your collar uncomfortably, and laugh again. “This is probably some god damn scam.”

“Does she look familiar, though?” he grits out.

“Well - yeah, but -”

“You gotta look her up,” he says. There’s a line between his eyebrows, and this is most concerned you’ve seen him look. Guy keeps it cool in the most intense games of Call of Duty you’ve ever seen. Hell, kids around the block come over just to watch him destroy at the battlefield. Even when orders go wrong, when shipments go missing, guy doesn’t break a sweat. Tells you it’s fine. Makes a few phone calls. Writes a few e-mails. Everything’s all set. “You gotta look her up, dude,” he says again, fingers shaking when he points at the picture a second time.

“But the job -” you say.

“I’m not saying _quit_ , all right?” he says firmly, closing his laptop down, and getting up to face you. “I’m telling you you agreed to stick to something, and I can fucking see that you are, but - but - _this is your kid,_ Michael. Not some useless job!”

“Ray -”

“Just fucking write her back!” he yells, storming out of the room.

He hides in his bedroom the whole day. Doesn’t answer back when you call him out for dinner, even though you’ve told him you ordered sushi and downloaded his favourite movie.

Communication between you two gets a little hazy the following weeks. He acts like nothing happened the next morning, but he’s tense. Won’t look you in the eye. The errands he gives you mean you have to be across town for the whole day, and you barely get a chance to talk to him anymore. Whenever you get back, it’s Matt and Jeremy running the shop, and they tell you Ray’s busy in the office working out some paperwork. Door’s always locked so you can’t even get in if you wanted to.

By the second week, you wake up to two plane tickets slipped under your door. They both leave Bangkok in six days.

One to Barcelona.

One to Germany.

He gives you a choice.

 

 


	10. Barcelona

 


End file.
